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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

Gift  of 


THE  HONNOLD  LIBRARY 


T.  B.  Macau  lay. 


LITERARY  ESSAYS 


OF 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 


SELECTED  AND   EDITED 
BY 

GEORGE   A.   WATROUS 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL  &  CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


// 


Copyright,  1900, 
Bv  THOMAS   Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


PREFACE. 

The  excuse  for  the  present  edition  of  selections 
from  Macaulay's  essays  may  be  found  in  an  increasing 
interest  in  this  author  and  in  the  subjects  treated.  It 
may  be  objected  to  the  title  that,  from  their  lack  of  all 
analytic  and  sympathetic  treatment,  none  of  Macau- 
lay's  essays  can  be  described  as  literary.  The  title  is 
justified,  however,  by  the  author's  purpose.  The 
essays  chosen  for  the  compilation  —  those  on  Milton, 
Dryden,  Addison,  Bunyan,  Goldsmith,  and  Johnson 
—  cover  a  long  period  of  time  in  our  literary  history 
and  include  a  wide  range  of  subject  matter.  Macau- 
lay's  opinion  of  himself,  that  he  constantly  improved, 
may  be  judged  by  reading  the  collection  here  pre- 
sented. The  essay  on  Milto7i  was  his  first  note- 
worthy attempt,  and  the 'essay  on  Johnson  was  among 
his  last  compositions.  The  editor's  desire  has  been 
to  collect  essays  which  should  be  representative  of 
their  author  and  at  the  same  time  offer  an  attractive 
subject  matter. 

The  biographical  sketch  owes  much  to  Trevelyan's 
Life  and  to  the  Life  of  Macaulay  by  J.  Cotter  Morri- 
son. The  editor  desires  also  to  acknowledge  the 
courtesy  of  Mr.  Clinton  Scollard  in  reading  the 
manuscript  and  in  offering  suggestions  very  grate- 
fully received. 

G.  A.  W. 

Utica,  N.Y.,  January,  1900. 

iii 


CONTENTS. 


Biographical  Note 
Essay  on  Milton  . 
Essay  on  Dryden  . 
Essay  on  Addison 
Essay  on  Bunyan  . 
Essay  on  Goldsmith 
Essay  on  Johnson 


PAGE 

vii 

68 

I25 
231 

251 
272 


THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACAULAY. 


Few  men  have  been  more  fortunate  in  their  parent- 
age than  was  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.  He  was 
descended  from  the  stock  of  the  common  people, 
Scotch  Presbyterians  on  his  father's  side,  Quakers 
on  his  mother's.  His  father  was  a  stern,  earnest, 
self-sacrificing  man,  who  devoted  his  life,  with  a 
singleness  of  purpose  rarely  seen,  to  the  emancipa- 
tion of  the  negroes.  Throughout  his  life  he  was 
well  known  and  known  widely  as  an  uncompromising 
enemy  of  the  slave  trade.  To  his  untiring  efforts 
in  behalf  of  the  negroes  is  due  the  founding  of  the 
Sierra  Leone  colony.  His  life  was  one  of  deeds, 
not  words.  Macaulay's  mother  was  a  woman  of 
tender  heart,  affectionate  temper,  and  firm  purpose. 
She  did  not  humor,  nor  threaten,  nor  cajole,  and  in 
the  ruling  of  her  home  she  furnishes  an  example 
which  most  mothers  of  to-day  might  imitate  to  the 
great  advantage  of  their  children.  Young  Macaulay 
disliked  his  school,  as  most  boys  do ;  he  preferred 
to  stay  at  home,  feeling  that  he  could  spend  his  time 
much  more  profitably  in  reading  than  in  conning 
lessons.  "  No,  Tom  ;  if  it  rains  cats  and  dogs,  you 
shall  go,"  was  her  answer  when  the  lad's  appeals 
were  grounded  on  the  inclement  weather.  The  boy 
was  still  young  when  many  flattering  comments  were 
made    on    his    unusual    abilities.       Histories,    epics, 


Vlii  INTRODUCTION. 

hymns,  odes,  and  other  compositions  in  prose  and 
verse  flowed  from  his  pen  with  a  facility  that  denoted 
remarkable  precocity.  Hannah  More  pronounced 
Macaulay's  juvenile  productions  "  quite  extraordinary 
for  such  a  baby.''  His  mother  was  pleased  with  such 
notice,  but  she  was  far  too  wise  to  submit  her  son 
to  the  debauching  influence  of  early  flattery.  "  Deep, 
sober,  clear-eyed  love  watched  over  Macaulay's  child- 
hood." We  marvel  not  that  this  boy  became  a  man ; 
much  of  Macaulay  we  owe  to  his  mother. 

-?*-*',     He   was    born__near   London,   October    25,    1800. 

^  His  early  education  was  received  at  private  schools ; 

at  the  age   of  eighteen  he  entered  Trinity  College, 

\  Cambridge,  whence  he  was  graduated  with  honors, 
^and  of  w^hich  he  was  made  a  fellow  in  1824.  Regard 
u  for  his  father's  wishes  led  Macaulay  to  read  law.  He 
was  called  to  the  bar  in  1826,  but  the  profession  was 
little  to  his  liking.  Coke  and  Littleton  and  Black- 
stone  had  few  attractions  for  him.  That  he  might 
have  been  successful  at  the  law  is  more  than  proba- 
ble. Later  in  life  while  in  India  he  produced  a  Penal 
Code  which  for  conciseness  and  completeness  has 
never  been  excelled  and,  with  the  modifications 
necessitated  by  the  differences  in  time  and  condi- 
tions, is  still  the  law  of  procedure  in  that  country. 
During  the  time  of  his  practice  in  England,  however, 
no  business  of  importance  came  to  him,  and  the  dis- 
tasteful tasks  of  this  profession  were  soon  abandoned 
for  the  more  attractive  labors  of  literature. 

Here,  after  a  brief  period  of  experiment,  he  gained 
immediate  recognition.     His  first  appearance  in  print 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  IX 

was  in  an  anonymous  article  published  in  a  magazine 
edited  by  his  father,  Zachary  Macaulay.  The  article  in 
question  was  a  defence  of  novels  and  caused  no  small 
stir  among  the  Puritanic  following  of  the  Christian 
Observer.  One  declared  that  he  had  thrown  the 
offending  number  into  the  fire  and  would  never  read 
another.  Macaulay  at  the  time  was  sixteen.  Seven 
years  later  he  contributed  a  few  papers  to  Knight's 
Quarterly.  Among  these  were  the  criticisms  on 
Datite  and  on  Petrarch,  the  Fragments  of  a  Roman 
Tale,  and  a  Conversation  between  Mr.  Abraham 
Cowley  and  Mr.  John  Milton,  touching  the  Great 
Civil  War,  which  may  still  be  found  in  collected 
editions  of  his  works. 

About  this  time  Jeffrey,  editor  of  the  Edinbiirgh 
Review,  was  casting  about  for  young  blood  that  might 
infuse  new  life  into  the  languid  columns  of  his  periodi- 
cal. "  When  I  see  you  in  London,"  writes  Macaulay 
to  his  father  in  October,  1824,  "I  will  mention  to  you 
a  bit  of  secret  history,"  alluding  to  overtures  made 
to  him  by  the  controller  of  the  Review.  He  accepted 
the  proposals,  and  in  August,  1825,  contributed  the 
essay  on  Milton.  The  literary  world  knows  the 
result.  Macaulay  leaped  into  fame.  By  a  single 
article  he  established  a  reputation  as  an  essayist 
superior  to  that  of  any  contemporary.  From  this 
time  on  he  wrote  regularly  and  for  an  ever  widening 
circle  of  readers.  He  had  found  his  right  vocation, 
and  entered  upon  it  with  eagerness  and  delight. 
Between  Milton  and  the  essay  on  The  Earl  of 
Chatham   (1844),  which   closes  the  long  list,  came 


X  INTRODUCTION, 

some  forty  contributions  to  magazines  and  to  the 
Encyclopedia  Britannica.  They  fall  easily  into  three 
general  divisions,  which  have  in  common  character- 
istics which  permit  treatment  in  a  group. 

What  first  impresses  the  reader  of  Macaulay's 
essays  is  the  author's  vast  and  intimate  knowledge 
of  events.  Whatever  his  subject,  he  is  clearly  at 
home.  Neglected  and  forgotten  names  and  deeds 
are  marshalled  with  a  rapidity  and  fluency  that  well- 
nigh  bewilders.  Facts  of  history,  literature,  and 
science  that  suggest  the  closest  study  of  the  sub- 
ject considered,  abound  in  every  paper.  Ancient 
authors,  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome,  con- 
tributed their  share  to  the  fulness  of  his  knowledge. 
The  average  man,  to  read  Macaulay  understandingly, 
needs  near  at  hand  dictionary,  mythology,  and  hand- 
books of  curious  lore.  Even  then  he  may  lose  the 
argument  through  the  tantalizing  obstinacy  of  some 
baffling  allusion.  Macaulay's  memory  was  stored 
with  information  from  myriad  sources.  This  trait, 
coupled  with  an  astonishing  power  of  collating  facts 
and  bringing  them  to  bear  directly  on  any  subject 
he  wished  to  illumine,  made  him  a  master  of  descrip- 
tion and  argument. 

Many  brilliant  pictures  and  glowing  periods  came 
from  this  union  of  widespread  knowledge  and  apt- 
ness of  illustration.  Splendid  as  are  these  efforts, 
all  are  made  in  the  past.  "  Concerning  the  pres- 
ent,1' says  John  Bach  McMaster,  "  he  knew  little  and 
cared  less."  To  any  one  who  reads  the  essays  this 
truth  becomes  at  once  apparent.     He  wrote  on  sub- 


INTR  OD  UCTION-  XI 

jects  from  art,  literature,  science,  history,  philosophy, 
religion  —  a  wide  range,  but  not  once  did  he  fail  to 
treat  his  subject  from  the  historical  standpoint.  The 
essay  on  Milton  is  a  review  on  Cromwell's  protecto- 
rate ;  that  on  Dryden  pictures  the  condition  of  poetry 
and  the  drama  in  the  dissolute  days  of  Charles  I.; 
that  on  Johnson  describes  the  state  of  literature  under 
the  rule  of  the  Great  Cham.  The  essay  on  Addison 
contains  much  of  the  state  of  politics  when  "  Cato  " 
was  produced,  but  no  analysis  of  this  famous  drama. 
He  does  not  analyze  nor  criticise  nor  present  fully 
the  ideas  of  a  single  production  of  the  men  whose 
literary  lives  he  might  be  expected  to  treat.  Their 
names  are  "  to  him  mere  pegs  on  which  to  hang  a 
splendid  historical  picture  of  the  times  in  which 
these  people  lived.11  There  is  nimble  wit  and  a  lively 
fancy;  there  are  clear-cut  silhouettes  and  dramatic 
scenes ;  but  there  is  no  thoughtful  consideration  of 
the  work  done  by  his  subjects.  In  describing  a 
picture  he  has  few  superiors ;  in  an  analysis  of  its 
moral  power  and  in  discovering  the  essential  value 
of  that  which  he  describes,  Macaulay  has  few  inferiors 
among  those  who  have  gained  applause  in  the  world 
of  letters. 

This  characteristic  lends  to  all  that  Macaulay  wrote, 
the  Essays,  the  History,  and  the  Lays,  a  quality 
whereby  they  become  especially  pleasing  to  the 
Anglo-Saxon  mind.  Macaulay  never  hesitates,  he  is 
always  positive.  No  feeling  of  doubt  appears  in  his 
pages.  There  is  a  confidence  in  his  own  power  and 
a  belief  in  his  own  opinions  that   never  allow  the 


Xll  INTRODL  TC  TION. 

reader  to  question  a  statement.  He  knew  himself 
and  knew  his  subject.  We  never  stumble  over  ideas 
timidly  suggested  nor  are  we  perplexed  with  the  vague 
shadows  of  incomplete  thought.  Before  he  put  pen 
to  paper,  the  subject  was  carefully  considered  and 
fully  conceived.  Nor  is  there,  in  the  Essays  espe- 
cially, any  sense  of  weariness.  Abundant  vitality, 
with  unmeasured  strength  in  reserve,  gives  force  to 
his  periods. 

It  seems  strange  indeed  that  one  of  such  manifold 
powers  should  lack  an  appreciation  of  the  deeper 
problems  of  life.  Yet  this  was  beyond  question  one 
of  Macaulay"s  failings.  He  never  sees  great  intel- 
lectual and  moral  questions.  He  did  not  know  the 
human  heart.  There  is  no  ethical  depth.  On  the 
long  voyage  from  England  to  India  he  read  inces- 
santly :  on  the  way  back  he  learned  the  German 
language.  Three  months  each  way  he  shut  himself 
apart  from  human  intercourse  and  immured  himself 
in  books.  Most  classical  authors  he  read  several 
times,  but  he  had  rarely  a  moment  to  spend  in  medi- 
tation. His  learning  is  restricted  to  book  lore.  In 
all  that  he  wrote  there  is  nothing  to  show  that  he 
ever  deeply  considered  the  noblest  relations  in  life,  — 
friendship,  love,  education,  religious  faith,  or  doubt. 
The  heart  is  the  source  of  poetry  and  fiction,  and  he 
who  criticises  them  must  read  not  only  widely  but 
deeply. 

We  turn  from  Macaulay's  essays  to  a  brief  outline 
of  his  political  career.  The  characteristic  of  posi- 
tiveness  which  we    noticed   in   the    essayist  was  no 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  Xlll 

less  evident  in  the  politician.  Macaulay  was  an 
earnest  Whig  and  an  ardent  party  man.  The  essay 
on  Milton  brought  the  young  author  prominently 
before  the  people ;  he  became  immediately  popular, 
and  i .  was  not  long  before  the  Whigs  discovered  in 
him  an  eligible  candidate.  In  1828  Lord  Lyndhurst 
made  him  a  Commissioner  of  Bankruptcy.  Lord 
Lansdowne  was  so  impressed  with  the  articles  on 
Mill  (1830)  that  he  offered  Macaulay,  though  an 
entire  stranger,  a  seat  in  Parliament  for  the  borough 
of  Calne.  At  the  age  of  thirty  he  took  his  place 
in  the  national  council,  just  before  the  death  of 
George  IV.  and  in  time  to  become  a  conspicuous 
figure  in  the  great  struggle  impending.  His  first 
speech  on  the  Reform  Bill  placed  him  in  the  fore- 
most rank  of  orators.  The  Speaker  sent  for  him  to 
say  that  "he  had  never  seen  such  excitement  in  the 
House."  Sir  Robert  Peel  was  equally  compliment- 
ary, and  one  member  said  there  had  been  no  such 
speaking  since  the  days  of  Fox.  For  oratory  Ma- 
caulay was  exceptionally  qualified.  His  ready  wit, 
his  fluency  of  speech,  and  his  power  of  illustration 
were  qualities  rarely  met  in  one  man.  The  effect 
produced  by  his  Reform  Bill  speeches  may  be  best 
judged  by  the  pains  which  the  opposition  took  to 
answer  them.  Croker,  the  ablest  Tory  debater,  de- 
voted a  two-hour  speech  exclusively  to  Macaulay ; 
and  he  was  followed  by  Wetherell,  Praed,  Inglis,  and 
Peel.     No  compliment  could  be  more  marked. 

Until  he  sailed  for  India  four  years  later,  Macaulay's 
life  was  one  of  severe,  unceasing  labor.     In  addition 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

to  his  parliamentary  duties  he  served  as  Commis- 
sioner and  later  as  Secretary  to  the  Board  of  Control ; 
he  was  the  lion  of  the  hour,  on  the  closest  terms  with 
Rogers,  Campbell,  Luttrell,  and  Moore  ;  yet  he  found 
time  in  moments  of  relaxation  to  keep  up  his  contri- 
butions to  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Constant  appli- 
cation he  felt  to  be  a  necessity.  All  his  family, 
owing  to  the  financial  misfortunes  of  his  father,  now 
depended  on  his  efforts.  To  secure  an  independence 
for  himself  and  those  dear  to  him,  he  accepted  an 
appointment  as  legal  adviser  to  the  Supreme  Council 
of  India.  It  was  a  voluntary  exile  undergone  solely 
for  the  purpose  of  securing  a  competence  that  would 
enable  him  to  devote  his  after  days  to  the  great  his- 
torical work.  No  man  ever  gave  up  more  flattering 
prospects.  He  was  a  leader  in  politics  and  the  ac- 
knowledged chief  in  literature.  No  dinner  or  at 
home  was  complete  without  him.  All  this  he  put 
behind  him,  a  sacrifice  many  would  have  been  inca- 
pable of;  but  he  deemed  the  object  worthy,  and  time 
has  approved  his  decision. 

Accompanied  by  his  sister  Hannah,  he  set  sail 
February  15,  1834.  The  characteristic  employment 
of  his  time  during  the  tedious  voyage  has  been  already 
mentioned.  Arrived  in  India,  he  began  work  with 
his  usual  vigor.  He  reformed  the  Penal  Code  so 
successfully  that  Mr.  Justice  Stephen  says  of  it, 
"  Hardly  any  questions  have  arisen  upon  it  which 
have  had  to  be  determined  by  the  Courts,  while  few 
and  slight  amendments  have  had  to  be  made  by  the 
Legislature.11     As  a  member  of  the   Committee   on 


INTR  OD  UCTION.  XV 

Education,  he  rendered  services  of  equal  value  and 
importance.  Five  members  of  the  Board  favored 
the  encouragement  of  Oriental  learning  among  the 
natives ;  five  stood  for  the  introduction  of  English 
literature  and  science.  Macaulay's  influence  turned 
the  scale.  He  submitted  an  elaborate  minute  on  this 
question  to  the  authorities  in  England,  who  decided 
that  the  "great  object  of  the  British  Government 
ought  to  be  the  promotion  of  European  literature  and 
science  among  the  natives  of  India.1' 

The  period  of  exile  ended  toward  the  close  of  1837. 
Its  object  was  attained  in  the  realization  of  a  fortune, 
modest,  but  quite  sufficient  for  his  simple  life.  When 
he  reached  England  he  learned  of  his  father's  death, 
which  had  occurred  during  the  homeward  voyage. 
After  a  short  rest  he  set  out  for  Italy,  and  throughout 
his  travels  kept  a  journal  that  forms  interesting  read- 
ing. His  reverence  for  the  great  names  of  history  and 
literature  here  appears  in  a  pleasing  light.  At  Flor- 
ence and  at  Rome  he  gathered  the  accurate  topo- 
graphical touches  that  help  to  give  the  Lays  their 
realistic  power.  The  life  of  ease,  however,  soon  tired 
him,  and  he  returned  to  England  to  enjoy  his  long- 
anticipated  literary  leisure. 

In  this  hope  he  was  disappointed.  The  Whigs 
were  in  a  sorry  plight.  Macaulay  threw  himself  into 
the  breach  and  re-entered  Parliament  as  member  for 
Edinburgh.  Soon  after  he  was  made  Secretary  of 
War.  Two  years  were  lost  here,  for  there  was  no 
gain  to  politics,  and  a  great  loss  to  literature.  The 
fall  of  the  Whig  ministry  was  probably  postponed, 


xvi  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

but  the  world  could  have  endured  that  party  disaster 
better  than  an  uncompensated  sacrifice  of  the  two 
years  that  might  have  given  much  to  our  literature. 
The  task  was  irksome,  and  a  man  of  less  party  loyalty 
would  have  welcomed  the  freedom  which  came  when 
the  Tories  secured  control  in  the  elections  of  1841. 

In  the  following  year  Macaulay  tempted  fortune 
with  a  new  venture,  a  volume  of  poems  entitled  Lays 
of  Ancient  Rome.  His  own  opinion  of  their  merit 
is  expressed  in  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  "  Though  they  are  but  trifles,  they  may  pass 
for  scholarlike  and  not  inelegant  trifles.''1  Again 
writing  to  the  same  person,  after  the  Lays  had  been 
published,  he  said :  "  I  am  glad  that  you  like  my 
Lays,  and  the  more  glad  because  I  know  that,  from 
good-will  to  me,  you  must  have  been  anxious  about 
their  fate.  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  misgivings.  I 
should  have  felt  similar  misgivings  if  I  had  learned 
that  any  person,  however  distinguished  by  talents  and 
knowledge,  whom  I  knew  as  a  writer  only  by  prose 
works,  was  about  to  publish  a  volume  of  poetry.  .  .  . 
Without  the  smallest  affection  of  modesty,  I  confess 
that  the  success  of  my  little  book  has  far  exceeded 
its  just  claims.  I  shall  be  in  no  hurry  to  repeat  the 
experiment ;  for  I  am  well  aware  that  a  second 
attempt  would  be  made  under  much  less  favorable 
circumstances."  September  9,  1850,  he  writes  in  his 
journal :  il  Those  poems  have  now  been  eight  years 
published.  I  do  not  rate  them  high ;  but  I  do  not 
remember  that  any  better  poetry  has  been  published 


INTR  OD  UC  TION.  XV11 

His  purpose  in  writing  the  Lays  is  distinctly  stated 
in  the  preface.  Macaulay  had  accepted  that  theory 
about  early  Roman  history  which  said  that  the  roman- 
tic stories  found  in  Livy  originated  in  the  lost  ballads 
of  the  early  Romans.  These  old  folk-songs  he  sought 
to  reproduce  in  the  Lays.  They  are,  therefore,  prima- 
rily ballads ;  not  of  the  primitive,  simple  type  such 
as  The  Fight  at  Maiden  or  Sir  Pat?'ick  Spens,  but  the 
finished,  polished  work  of  the  skilful  craftsman  living 
in  a  highly  developed  period  of  civilization.  The 
early  ballads  were  simple  and  wholly  unconscious, 
and  depended  on  the  matter,  not  the  manner;  the 
ballads  of  later  days  are  artificial,  imitated,  and  the 
art  of  the  writer  is  rarely  lost  sight  of.  This  is  no 
more  than  to  say  that  the  tale  of  his  own  experiences 
by  Horatius  would  have  differed  from  Macaulay's 
account.  We  do  not  venture  much,  however,  in 
saying  that  no  English  poet  would  have  succeeded 
better  than  Macaulay  did  in  his  effort  to  restore  the 
Roman  ballads.  Leslie  Stephen  suggests  that  Mr. 
Kingsley  might  have  approached  it  or  possibly  Brown- 
ing. In  any  case,  he  concludes  that  the  feat  is  signifi- 
cant of  Macaulay's  true  power.  Other  writers  have 
made  similar  attempts,  but  are  far  from  having  gained 
a  similar  success.  The  most  obvious  is  William 
Ay  tou n,  with  his  Lays  of  the  Cava lier s.  A  good  way 
to  gain  a  full  appreciation  of  the  sweep  and  fire  of 
Macaulay's  verses  is  to  compare  them  with  Aytoun's 
work.  We  may  know  how  good  Macaulay  is  when 
we  know  how  incapable  others  have  been  in  their 
attempts  to  reproduce  the  spirit  of  a  time  long  past. 


x  Vlll  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

We  may  not  stop  to  consider  carefully  this  inter- 
lude in  the  life  of  the  essayist  and  historian.  They 
do  noi:  entitle  their  author  to  the  name  of  poet,  though 
they  do  show  no  slight  poetical  ability.  They  are 
eminently  simple  —  all  intelligent  children  read 
them  with  eager  delight,  nor  are  they  despised  by 
those  of  larger  growth.  They  are  strong  and  un- 
adorned ;  the  art  is  that  of  the  sculptor  rather  than 
of  the  painter.  His  Lays  are  of  the  city,  his  heroes 
fight  for  their  country,  for  love,  for  honor.  It  is  not 
in  the  battle  that  Macaulay  delights,  but  in  the  spirit 
that  leads  men  to  overthrow  the  tyrant  and  to  defend 
the  home. 

"  For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 
Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 
In  the  brave  days  of  old."  I 

This  is  the  spirit  of  all  the  Lays.  The  state  was 
everything.  Thus  the  underlying  motive  differed 
widely  from  that  of  the  other  Romantic  writers  — Scott, 
for  instance,  "  whose  sympathies,*'  Mr.  Ruskin  says, 
"  are  rather  with  outlaws  and  rebels,  especially  under 
"  the  green-wood  tree,1  and  he  has  but  little  objection 
to  rebellion  even  to  a  king,  provided  it  be  on  private 
and  personal  grounds,  and  not  systematic  or  directed 
to  great  public  aims.17  Altogether  the  Lays  do  not 
equal  the  length  of  Marmion,  yet  Macaulay  kept  them 
by  him  several  years,  and  at  intervals  lightened  his 
more  serious  labors  by  their  composition.  This  fact 
is  in  itself  a  guarantee  against   the    result   of  hasty 


1NTR  OD  UC  TION.  XIX 

work.     The  versification  is  technically  faultness,  and 
there  is  no  lack  of  force  and  vigor  in  his  lines. 

But  Macaulay  rested  his  claim  to  a  place  in  English 
literature  on  the  "  History  of  England  from  the  acces- 
sion of  King  James  the  Second  down  to  a  time  which 
is  within  the  memory  of  men  still  living."  On  this  he 
had  long  been  engaged  with  greater  or  less  intent- 
ness.  The  Essays  interrupted  this  main  task,  the 
Lays  served  as  a  recreation  from  the  severer  labor, 
and  the  parliamentary  duties  involved  a  useless  waste 
of  his  strength.  While  in  Rome  he  sketched  a  plan 
for  the  Histo?y.  "  As  soon  as  I  return  I  shall  se- 
riously commence  my  History.  The  first  part  will 
extend  from  the  Revolution  to  the  commencement  of 
Sir  Robert  Walpole's  long  administration  —  ajp_eriod_ 
of  jthree  or  four,  and  that  very  eventful,  years.  From 
the  commencement  of  Walpole's  administration  to  the 
commencement  of  the  American  war,  events  may  be 
despatched  more  concisely.  From  the  commence- 
ment of  the  American  war  it  will  again  become  neces- 
sary to  be  more  copious.  How  far  I  shall  bring  the 
narrative  down  I  have  not  determined.  The  death  of 
George  IV.  would  be  the  best  halting  place."  This 
was  written  in  1838,  though  he  did  not  seriously 
begin  until  1841,  nor  were  the  first  two  volumes  pub- 
lished until  1848.  The  plan  has  been  given  in  Macau- 
lay's  own  words ;  his  purpose  was  novel  in  historical 
literature. 

History,  he  thought,  was  a  compound  of  poetry  and 
philosophy.  They  had  never  been  perfectly  amalga- 
mated, and  in  his  day  had  become  completely  sepa- 


XX  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

rated.  Macaulay  aimed  at  a  harmonious  blending  of 
these  two  hostile  elements.  In  this  he  differed 
widely  from  all  historians  who  preceded,  and  still 
more  from  those  of  the  present  century.  To  produce 
his  effects,  minuteness  of  detail  and  a  high  degree  of 
human  interest  were  necessary.  These  requisites  his 
artistic  temperament  enabled  him  to  single  out  from 
the  mass,  and  to  blend  in  a  close  unity.  Biographical 
anecdotes,  life-size  portraits  of  characters  common 
already  to  fiction,  were  woven  into  the  web  of  histori- 
cal truth.  This,  of  course,  necessitated  a  work  of 
great  bulk  and  constitutes  an  objection,  though  a 
childish  one.  to  his  plan.  The  five  volumes  completed 
and  published  cover  a  period  of  fifteen  years  —  written 
at  the  rate  of  one  volume  in  three.  To  finish  his 
design  would  have  required  at  least  fifty  volumes, 
which,  written  at  the  rate  of  those  published,  would 
have  taken  him  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  !  As 
we  read,  we  should  ever  remember  that  we  have  but  a 
fragment,  only  the  groundwork  of  the  massive  struc- 
ture he  had  designed. 

Many  critics  have  objected  to  the  plan  of  the  His- 
tory—  an  objection  which  it  is  not  the  place  of  this 
essay  to  consider.  It  is  serious  from  no  point  of 
view.  The  work  should  be  judged  on  its  fidelity 
or  unfaithfulness  to  the  author's  scheme.  Of  more 
importance  and  greater  weight  are  the  criticisms  on 
the  party  spirit  manifested,  and  the  many  inaccura- 
cies in  matter  of  fact.  If  the  charge  of  party  spirit  can 
be  made  good,  it  should  bear  the  burden  of  the  other 
fault.     Macaulay  had  withdrawn  from  the  arena  of 


INTRODUCTION.  xxi 

politics  before  the  Histoiy  was  begun.  Throughout 
the  work  time  and  again  he  condemns  the  Whigs  in 
no  measured  terms,  and  does  ample  justice  to  upright, 
honest  Tories.  Subservience  to  party  feeling  would 
have  produced  portraits  of  Bishop  Ken  and  Jeremy 
Collier  much  less  nattering  than  those  Macaulay  drew 
of  those  famous  non-jurors.  He  was  partial  to 
William,  perhaps,  and  certainly  severe  on  the  Stuart 
dynasty.  In  the  role  of  kings,  no  men  were  ever  more 
foolish  and  incompetent ;  none  ever  blundered  so 
hopelessly,  and  few  ever  so  perversely  plotted  and  ac- 
complished their  own  destruction.  Foreigners  are  no 
less  severe  than  Macaulay.  Victoria  had  nothing  to 
say  for  James  II.  "To  dinner  at  the  palace.  The 
queen  was  most  gracious  to  me.  She  talked  much 
about  my  book,  and  owned  she  had  nothing  to  say  for 
her  poor  ancestor,  James  II."  (Macaulay 's  diary, 
March  9,  1850.)  The  charge  of  inaccuracy  has  better 
foundation.  Macaulay,  as  has  before  been  indicated, 
lacked  a  knowledge  of  men.  In  the  case  of  individu- 
als, he  scrutinized  acts  with  scant  regard  for  motives, 
permitting  himself  to  cultivate  antipathies  that  speedily 
became  prejudices.  His  powerful  imagination  gave 
life  to  his  subjects  ;  he  met  them  in  the  streets  of  Lon- 
don, at  the  club,  at  the  palace.  From  these  meetings, 
the  prejudice  turned  to  contempt,  and  in  his  drama  of 
English  life  he  assigned  them  the  role  of  villains. 
Marlborough  becomes  a  murderer,  William  Penn  a 
sycophant,  Dangerfield  a  cuckold.  With  such  men 
he  took  the  liberties  of  romantic  treatment,  but  lacked 
both  the  motive  and  the  license  which  justify  the  writer 


XX11  JNTR  OD  UC  TION. 

of  fiction.  And  this  is  all  honestly  done,  for  he  was 
utterly  incapable  of  intentional  unfairness.  Perhaps 
this  is  no  more  than  to  say  that  Macaulay  was  human  ; 
he  could  entertain  prejudices,  and  he  could  be  inaccu- 
rate. These  faults,  beyond  all  question,  are  the 
exception  and  not  the  rule. 

We  may  notice  briefly  the  popularity  of  Macaulay's 
productions.  Within  ten  years,  eighteen  thousand 
copies  of  the  Lays  were  sold  in  Great  Britain,  and  in 
1875  the  one  hundred  thousand  mark  was  nearly 
reached.  He  long  refused  to  publish  his  Essays,  but 
an  enterprising  American  collected  them,  and  shipped 
an  edition  to  London.  Macaulay  gave  way.  The 
Essays  were  issued,  and  within  thirty  years  one  pub- 
lisher disposed  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
copies.  Thirteen  thousand  copies  of  the  History  were 
sold  in  four  months.  This  astonishing  success  con- 
tinued ;  year  after  year,  the  London  publisher  sold  on 
an  average  seventy  sets  a  week.  In  the  United  States, 
the  sale  was  equally  marvellous.  Harper  and  Brothers, 
in  1849,  writing  t0  Macaulay,  said  that  already  sixty 
thousand  copies  had  been  sold  here,  and  estimated 
that  within  three  months  the  number  would  reach  two 
hundred  thousand.  The  sale  in  America  had  never 
been  equalled  save  by  the  Bible  and  a  few  school 
books  in  general  use.  If  popular  appreciation  gives 
content,  Macaulay  surely  might  well  have  been 
satisfied. 

Honors  of  ever}7  sort  were  showered  upon  him  with- 
out stint.  He  was  rich,  flattered,  courted  by  all.  He 
was  made  a  member  of  the   Academies  of  Utrecht, 


INTRODUCTION.  XX111 

Munich,  and  Turin,  the  King  of  Prussia  named  him  a 
Knight  of  the  Order  of  Merit,  and  Guizot  proposed  him 
for  the  Institute  of  France.  Oxford  honored  herself 
by  conferring  upon  him  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Civil 
Law,  the  Philosophical  Society  of  Edinburgh  chose 
him  as  its  president,  the  University  of  Cambridge  ap- 
pointed him  Professor  of  History,  and  in  1857  he  was 
made  a  peer  with  the  title  Baron  Macaulay  of  Rothley. 
He  did  not  live  long  to  enjoy  his  merited  honors. 
Stricken  in  1852  with  heart  disease,  he  soon  afterward 
became  an  invalid,  and  yet  his  last  years  were  peace- 
ful and  happy.  In  a  quiet  home,  withdrawn  from  the 
annoyances  of  publicity,  surrounded  with  all  that  a 
successful  life  and  loyal  love  can  give,  he  waited 
patiently  for  the  end.  "  He  died  as  he  had  always 
wished  to  die — without  pain;  without  any  formal 
farewell,  preceding  to  the  grave  all  whom  he  loved, 
and  leaving  behind  him  a  great  and  honorable  name, 
and  the  memory  of  a  life  every  action  of  which  was  as 
transparent  as  one  of  his  own  sentences.'1  On  the 
9th  of  January,  i860,  he  was  buried  in  Poets'  Cor- 
ner, close  by  his  peers  in  prose  and  verse,  with  those 
whose  names  and  deeds  have  made  glorious  the  annals 
of  English  literature  and  history. 


JOHN    MILTON. 

1 609- 1 674. 

The  essay  on  Milton  was  first  published  as  an 
article  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  of  August,  1825. 
Macaulay  was  then  but  twenty-five  years  old.  The 
early  maturity  of  his  literary  powers  is  herein  abun- 
dantly evidenced.  It  is  for  this  fact  alone  that  Mr. 
J.  Cotter  Morrison  (Life  of  Milton,  E?iglish  Men  of 
Letters  Series)  considers  the  essay  remarkable.  Other 
writers  have  estimated  more  highly.  Canning  says, 
u  Considering  its  length,  it  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
pleasing  and  brilliant  essays  in  the  English  language." 
With  reference  to  the  reception  granted  the  essay  by 
the  reading  public  Dean  Milman  tells  us  that  "it 
excited  greater  attention  than  any  article  which  had 
ever  appeared  not  immediately  connected  with  the 
politics  of  the  day."  The  effect  upon  the  young 
author's  reputation  was  instantaneous.  With  a  single 
step  he  passed  from  comparative  obscurity  into  full 
view  of  the  public  eye.  Flattering  invitations,  com- 
pliments from  all  quarters  of  London,  poured  in  upon 
him.  Of  these,  the  one  most  valued,  and  according 
to  Trevelyan  the  only  one  ever  repeated  by  Macaulay, 
was  paid  by  Jeffries,  editor  of  the  Review,  in  the 
single  sentence  with  which  he  acknowledged  the  re- 
ceipt of  the  manuscript,  "The  more  I  think  the  less 
I  can  conceive  where  you  picked  up  that  style." 

j      Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1823,  Mr.  Lemon, 
deputy  keeper  of  the  state  papers,  in  the  course  of  his 
researches  among  the  presses  of  his  office,  met  with  a 
1 


2  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

large  Latin  manuscript.  With  it  were  found  corrected 
copies  of  the  foreign  despatches  written  by  Milton, 
while  he  filled  the  office  of  Secretary,  and  several 
papers  relating  to  the  Popish  Trials  and  the  Rye- 
house  Plot.  The  whole  was  wrapped  up  in  an  enve- 
lope, superscribed  To  Air.  Skinner,  Merchant.  On 
examination,  the  large  manuscript  proved  to  be  the 
long  lost  Essay  on  the  Doctrines  of  Christianity, 
which,  according  to  Wood  and  Toland,  Milton  finished 
after  the  Restoration,  and  deposited  with  Cyriac  Skin- 
ner. Skinner,  it  is  well  known,  held  the  same  political 
opinions  with  his  illustrious  friend.  It  is  therefore 
probable,  as  Mr.  Lemon  conjectures,  that  he  may 
have  fallen  under  the  suspicions  of  the  government 
during  that  persecution  of  the  Whigs  which  followed 
the  dissolution  of  the  Oxford  parliament,  and  that,  in 
consequence  of  a  general  seizure  of  his  papers,  this 
work  may  have  been  brought  to  the  office  in  which  it 
has  been  found.  But  whatever  the  adventures  of  the 
manuscript  may  have  been,  no  doubt  can  exist  that  it 
is  a  genuine  relic  of  the  great  poet. 

Mr.  Sumner,  who  was  commanded  by  his  Majesty 
to  edit  and  translate  the  treatise,  has  acquitted  him- 
self of  his  task  in  a  manner  honorable  to  his  talents 
and  to  his  character.  His  version  is  not  indeed  very 
easy  or  elegant ;  but  it  is  entitled  to  the  praise  of 
clearness  and  fidelity.  His  notes  abound  with  inter- 
esting quotations,  and  have  the  rare  merit  of  really 
elucidating  the  text.  The  preface  is  evidently  the 
work  of  a  sensible  and  candid  man,  firm  in  his  own 
religious  opinions,  and  tolerant  towards  those  of 
others. 

The  book  itself  will  not  add  much  to  the  fame  of 
Milton.     It  is,  like  all  his  Latin  works,  well  written, 


MILTON.  3 

though  not  exactly  in  the  style  of  the  prize  essays  of 
Oxford  and  Cambridge.  There  is  no  elaborate  imita- 
tion of  classical  antiquity,  no  scrupulous  purity,  none 
of  the  ceremonial  cleanness  which  characterizes  the 
diction  of  our  academical  Pharisees.  The  author  does 
not  attempt  to  polish  and  brighten  his  composition 
into  the  Ciceronian  gloss  and  brilliancy.  He  does 
not  in  short  sacrifice  sense  and  spirit  to  pedantic 
refinements.  The  nature  of  his  subject  compelled 
him  to  use  many  words 

"That  would  have  made  Quintilian  stare  and  gasp." 

But  he  writes  with  as  much  ease  and  freedom  as  if 
Latin  were  his  mother  tongue ;  and,  where  he  is  least 
happy,  his  failure  seems  to  arise  from  the  carelessness 
of  a  native,  not  from  the  ignorance  of  a  foreigner.  We 
may  apply  to  him  what  Denham  with  great  felicity 
says  of  Cowley.  He  wears  the  garb,  but  not  the 
clothes  of  the  ancients. 

U  Throughout  the  volume  are  discernible  the  traces 
of  a  powerful  and  independent  mind,  emancipated 
from  the  influence  of  authority,  and  devoted  to  the 
search  of  truth.  Milton  professes  to  form  his  system 
from  the  Bible  alone ;  and  his  digest  of  scriptural 
texts  is  certainly  among  the  best  that  have  appeared. 
But  he  is  not  always  so  happy  in  his  inferences  as  in 
his  citations. 

4*  Some  of  the  heterodox  doctrines  which  he  avows 
seemed  to  have  excited  considerable  amazement,  par- 
ticularly his  Arianism,  and  his  theory  on  the  subject 
of  polygamy.  Yet  we  can  scarcely  conceive  that  any 
person  could  have  read  the  Paradise  Lost  without 
suspecting  him  of  the  former ;  nor  do  we  think  that 
any  reader,  acquainted  with  the  history  of  his  life, 


4  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

ought  to  be  much  startled  at  the  latter.  The  opinions 
which  he  has  expressed  respecting  the  nature  of  the 
Deity,  the  eternity  of  matter,  and  the  observation  of 
the  Sabbath,  might,  we  think,  have  caused  more  just 
surprise. 

But  we  will  not  go  into  the  discussion  of  these  points. 
The  book,  were  it  far  more  orthodox  or  far  more  heret- 
ical than  it  is,  would  not  much  edify  or  corrupt  the 
present  generation.  The  men  of  our  time  are  not  to 
be  converted  or  perverted  by  (quartos.  A  few  more 
days  and  this  essay  will  follow  Xhe'Defensio  Populi, 
to  the  dust  and  silence  of  the  upper  shelf.  The  name 
of  its  author,  and  the  remarkable  circumstances  attend- 
ing its  publication,  will  secure  to  it  a  certain  degree  of 
attention.  For  a  month  or  two  it  will  occupy  a  few 
minutes  of  chat  in  every  drawing-room,  and  a  few 
columns  in  every  magazine  ;  and  it  will  then,  to  bor- 
row the  elegant  language  of  the  play-bills,  be  with- 
drawn, to  make  room  for  the  forthcoming  novelties. 

We  wish  however  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  interest, 
transient  as  it  may  be,  which  this  work  has  excited. 
The  dexterous  Capuchins  never  choose  to  preach  on 
the  life  and  miracles  of  a  saint,  till  they  have  awakened 
the  devotional  feelings  of  their  auditors  by  exhibiting 
some  relic  of  him,  a  thread  of  his  garment,  a  lock  of 
his  hair,  or  a  drop  of  his  blood.  On  the  same  prin- 
ciple, we  intend  to  take  advantage  of  the  late  interest- 
ing discovery,  and,  while  this  memorial  of  a  great  and 
good  man  is  still  in  the  hands  of  all,  to  say  something 
of  his  moral  and  intellectual  qualities.  Nor,  we  are 
convinced,  will  the  severest  of  our  readers  blame  us 
if,  on  an  occasion  like  the  present,  we  turn  for  a  short 
time  from  the  topics  of  the  day,  to  commemorate,  in 
all  love  and  reverence,  the  genius  and  virtues  of  John 


MILTON.  5 

Milton,  the  poet,  the  statesman,  the  philosopher,  the 
glory  of  English  literature,  the  champion  and  the  mar- 
tyr of  English  liberty. 

It  is  by  his  poetry  that  Milton  is  best  known  ;  and 
it  is  of  his  poetry  that  we  wish  first  to  speak.  By  the 
general  suffrage  of  the  civilized  world,  his  place  has 
been  assigned  among  the  greatest  masters  of  the  art. 
His  detractors,  however,  though  outvoted,  have  not 
been  silenced.  There  are  many  critics,  and  some  of 
great  name,  who  contrive  in  the  same  breath  to  extol 
the  poems  and  to  decry  the  poet.  The  works  they 
acknowledge,  considered  in  themselves,  may  be  classed 
among  the  noblest  productions  of  the  human  mind. 
But  they  will  not  allow  the  author  to  rank  with  those 
great  men  who,  born  in  the  infancy  of  civilization, 
supplied;  by  their  own  powers,  the  want  of  instruction, 
and,  though  destitute  of  models  themselves,  bequeathed 
to  posterity  models  which  defy  imitation.  Milton,  it 
is  said,  inherited  what  his  predecessors  created;  he 
lived  in  an  enlightened  age ;  he  received  a  finished 
education ;  and  we  must  therefore,  if  we  would  form 
a  just  estimate  of  his  powers,  make  large  deductions 
in  consideration  of  these  advantages. 

We  venture  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  paradoxical  as 
the  remark  may  appear,  that  no  poet  has  ever  had  to 
struggle  with  more  unfavorable  circumstances  than 
Milton.  .  He  doubted,  as  he  has  himself  owned, 
whether  he  had  not  been  born  "an  age  too  late." 
For  this  notion  Johnson  has  thought  fit  to  make  him 
the  butt  of  much  clumsy  ridicule.  The  poet,  we 
believe,  understood  the  nature  of  his  art  better  than 
the  critic.  He  knew  that  his  poetical  genius  derived 
no  advantage  from  the  civilization  which  surrounded 
him,  or  from  the  learning  which  he  had  acquired  ;  and 


6  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

he  looked  back  with  something  like  regret  to  the  ruder 
age  of  simple  words  and  vivid  impressions.  \   M 

We  think  that,  as  civilization  advances,  poetry VpjL 
almost  necessarily  declines.  Therefore,  though  weyr 
fen-entlx^admire  those  great  works  of  imagination 
,  which  have  appeared  in  dark  ages,  we  do  not  admire 
them  trie  more  because  they  have  appeared  in 
dark  a  gigs.  On  the  contrary,  we  hold,  that  the  most 
wonderful  and  splendid  proof  of  genius  is  a  great 
poem  produced  in  a  civilized  age.  We  cannot  under- 
stand why  those  who  believe  in  that  most  orthodox 
article  of  literary  faith,  that  the  earliest  poets  are 
generally  the  best,  should  wonder  at  the  rule  as  if  it 
were  the  exception.  Surely  the  uniformity  of  the 
phenomenon  indicates  a  corresponding  uniformity  in 
the  cause. 

The  fact  is,  that  common  observers  reason  from  the  J 
progress  of  the  experimental  science  to  that  of  the  " 
imitative  arts.     The  improvement  of  the   former  is  \*^ 
gradual^  and   slow.      Ages   are   spent    in    collecting 
materials,  ages  more    in    separating    and    combining 
them.     Even  when  a  system  has  been  formed,  there 
is  still  something  to  add,  to  alter,  or  to  reject.     Every 
generation  enjoys  the  use  of  a  vast  hoard  bequeathed 
to   it   by  antiquity,  and   transmits    that   hoard,  aug- 
mented by  fresh  acquisitions,  to  future  ages.     In  these 
pursuits,  therefore,  the  first  speculators  lie  under  great 
disadvantages,  and,  even  when  they  fail,  are  entitled 
to  praise.     Their  pupils,  with  far  inferior  intellectual 
^powers,  speedily  surpass  them  in  actual  attainments. 
\J  Every  girl  who  has  read  Mrs.  Marcefs  little  dialogues 
i  .y  on  Political  Economy  could  teach  Montague  or  Wal- 
Jk      pole  many  lessons  in  finance.     Any  intelligent  man 
may  now,  by  resolutely  applying   himself  for  a  few 


MILTON.  7 

years   to   mathematics,   learn   more    than   the   great 
Newton  knew  after  half  a  century  of  study  and  medi- 
tation. 
/  V      But  it  is  not  thus  with  music,  with  painting,  or  with 
sculpture.     Still  less   is   it   thus  with   poetry.     The 
progress  of  refinement  rarely  supplies  these  arts  with 
better  objects  of  imitation.     It  may  indeed  improve 
the  instruments  which  are  necessary  to  the  mechani- 
cal operations  of  the  musician,  the  sculptor,  and  the 
painter.     But  language,  the  machine  of  the  poet,  is 
best  fitted  for  his  purpose  in  its  rudest  state.     Nations,  /a^L* 
like   individuals,   first    perceive,  ,pnrl    thpn    ^trart-.  X*^ 
They  advance  from  particular  inqagas  \c>  general  terms.      1 
Hence   the  vocabulary  of  an  enlightened   society  is 
philosophical,    that    of    a    half-civilized     people    is 
poetical. 

This  change  in  the  language  of  men  is  partly  the 
cause  and  partly  the  effect  of  a  corresponding  change 
in   the    nature  of  their  intellectual  operations,  of  a    /fl&s- 


v 


'^change   by  which    science   ,ggins   and   poetry   loses.  V/X& 
Generalization  is  necessary  to  the   advancement   of  ;' 

li 


knowledge ;  but  particularly  is  indispensable  to  the 
creations  of  the  imagination.  In  proportion  as  men 
know  more  and  think  more,  they  look  less  at  indi- 
viduals and  more  at  classes.  They  therefore  make 
better  theories  and  worse  poems.  They  give  us  vague 
phrases  instead  of  images,  and  personified  qualities 
instead  of  men.  They  may  be  better  able  to  analyze 
human  nature  than  their  predecessors.  But  analysis 
is  not  the  business  of  the  poet.  His  office  is  to  por- 
tray, not  to  dissect.  He  may  believe  in  a  moral  sense, 
like  Shaftesbury ;  he  may  refer  all  human  actions  to 
self-interest,  like  Helvetius ;  or  he  may  never  think 
about  the  matter  at  all.     His  creed  on  such  subjects^ 


* 


8  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

will  no  more  influence  his  poetry,  properly  so  called, 
than  the  notions  which  a  painter  may  have  conceived 
respecting  the  lacrymal  glands,  or  the  circulation  of 
the  blood,  will  affect  the  tears  of  his  Niobe,  or  the 
blushes  of  his  Aurora.  If  Shakspeare  had  written  a 
book  on  the  motives  of  human  actions,  it  is  by  no 
means  certain  that  it  would  have  been  a  good  one. 
It  is  extremely  improbable  that  it  would  have  con- 
tained half  so  much  able  reasoning  on  the  subject  as 
is  to  be  found  in  the  Fable  of  the  Bees.  But  could 
Mandeville  have  created  an  Iago?  Well  as  he  knew 
how  to  resolve  characters  into  their  elements,  would 
he  have  been  able  to  combine  those  elements  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  make  up  a  man,  a  real,  living,  indi- 
vidual man? 

Perhaps  no  person  can  be  a  poet,  or  can  even  enjoy 
poetry,  without  a  certain  unsoundness  of  mind,  if  any- 
thing which  gives  so  much  pleasure  ought  to  be  called 
unsoundness.  By  poetry  we  mean  not  all  writing  in 
^  r- Averse,  nor  even  all  good  writing  in  verse.  Our  defini- 
\  tion  excludes  many  metrical  compositions  which,  on 
other  grounds,  deserve  the  highest  praise.  By  poetry 
we  mean  the  art  of  employing  words  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  produce  an  illusion  on  the  imagination,  the  art 
of  doing  by  means  of  words  what  the  painter  does  by 
means  of  colors.  Thus  the  greatest  of  poets  has 
described  it,  in  lines  universally  admired  for  the  vigor 
and  felicity  of  their  diction,  and  still  more  valuable  on 
account  of  the  just  notion  which  they  convey  of  the 
art  in  which  he  excelled  : 

"  As  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


MILTON.  9 

These  are  the  fruits  of  the  "fine  frenzy"  which  he 
ascribes  to  the  poet,  —  a  fine  frenzy  doubtless,  but 
still  a  frenzy.     Truth,  indeed,  is  essential  to  poetry ; 
but  it  is  the  truth  of  madness.     The  reasonings  are 
just ;  but  the  premises  are  false.     After  the  first  sup- 
positions have  been  made,  everything  ought  to  be 
consistent ;  but  those  first  suppositions  require  a  de- 
gree of  credulity  which  almost  amounts  to  a  partial 
and  temporary  derangement  of  the  intellect.     Hence 
of  all  people  children  are  the  most  imaginative.     They 
abandon  themselves  without  reserve  to  every  illusion. 
Every  image  which    is   strongly  presented    to    their 
mental  eye  produces  on  them  the  effect  of  reality. 
No   man,  whatever   his   sensibility  may  be,  is  ever 
affected  by  Hamlet  or  Lear,  as  a  little  girl  is  affected 
by  the  story  of  poor  Red  Riding-hood.     She  knows 
that  it  is  all  false,  that  wolves  cannot  speak,  that  there 
are  no  wolves  in  England.     Yet  in  spite  of  her  knowl- 
«  edge  she   believes ;    she  weeps ;   she  trembles ;    she 
M  dajgs  not  go  into  a  dark  room  lest  she  should  feel 
\jh  the  teeth  of  the  monster  at  her  throat.     Such  is  the 
v*.  despotism  of  the  imagination  over  uncultivated  minds. 
In  a  rude  state  of  society  men  are  children  with  a" 
greater  variety  of  ideas.     It  is  therefore  in  such  a 
//  state  of  society  that  we  may  expect  to  find  the  poet- 
ical temperament  in  its   highest   perfection.     In   an 
enlightened  age  there  will  be  much  intelligence,  much 
science,  much  philosophy,  abundance  of  just  classifi- 
cation  and   subtle   analysis,   abundance  of  wit   and 
eloquence,  abundance  of  verses,  and  even  of  good 
ones ;   but  little  poetry.     Men  will  judge  and   com- 
pare ;  but  they  will  not  create.     They  will  talk  about 
the  old  poets,  and  comment  on  them,  and  to  a  certain 
y      degree  enjoy  them.     But  they  will  scarcely  be  able 


10  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

to  conceive  the  effect  which  poetry  produced  on  their 
ruder  ancestors,  the  agony,  the  ecstasy,  the  plenitude 
of  belief.  The  Greek  Rhapsodists,  according  to  Plato, 
could  scarce  recite  Homer  without  falling  into  con- 
vulsions. The  Mohawk  hardly  feels  the  scalping 
knife  while  he  shouts  his  death-song.  The  power 
which  the  ancient  bards  of  Wales  and  Germany  exer- 
cised over  their  auditors  seems  to  modern  readers 
almost  miraculous.  Such  feelings  are  very  rare  in  a 
civilized  community,  and  most  rare  among  those  who 
participate  most  in  its  improvements.  They  linger 
longest  among  the  peasantry. 

Poetry  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the  mind, 

/  *7  as  a  magic  lantern  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of 
the  body.  And,  as  the  magic  lantern  acts  best  in  a 
dark  room,  poetry  effects  its  purpose  most  completely 
in  a  dark  age.  As  the  light  of  knowledge  breaks  in 
upon  its  exhibitions,  as  the  outlines  of  certainty  be- 
come more  and  more  definite,  and  the  shades  of 
probability  more  and  more  distinct,  the  hues  and 
lineaments  of  the  phantoms  which  the  poet  calls  up 
grow  fainter  and  fainter.  We  cannot  unite  the  in- 
compatible advantages  of  reality  and  deception,  the 
clear  discernment  of  truth  and  the  exquisite  enjoy- 
ment of  fiction. 

He  who.  in  an  enlightened  and   literary  society, 

/  <.-  aspires  to  be  a  great  poet,  must  first  become  a  little 
child.  He  must  take  to  pieces  the  whole  web  of  his 
mind.  He  must  unlearn  much  of  that  knowledge 
which  has  perhaps  constituted  hitherto  his  chief  title 
to  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  be  a  hindrance 
to  him.  His  difficulties  will  be  proportioned  to  his 
proficiency  in  the  pursuits  which  are  fashionable 
among  his  contemporaries  ;  and  that  proficiency  will 


MILTON.  II 

in  general  be  proportioned  to  the  vigor  and  activity 
of  his  mind.  And  it  is  well  if,  after  all  his  sacrifices 
and  exertions,  his  works  do  not  resemble  a  lisping 
man  or  a  modern  ruin.  We  have  seen  in  our  own 
time  great  talents,  intense  labor,  and  long  meditation, 
employed  in  this  struggle  against  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  and  employed,  we  will  not  say,  absolutely  in  vain, 
but  with  dubious  success  and  feeble  applause. 

If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has  ever  tri- 
umphed over  greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  He 
received  a  learned  education ;  he  was  a  profound 
and  elegant  classical  scholar ;  he  had  studied  all  the 
mysteries  of  Rabbinical  literature ;  he  was  intimately 
acquainted  with  every  language  of  modern  Europe, 
from  which  either  pleasure  or  information  was  then 
to  be  derived.  He  was  perhaps  the  only  great  poet 
of  later  times  who  has  been  distinguished  by  the 
excellence  of  his  Latin  verse.  The  genius  of  Petrarch 
was  scarcely  of  the  first  order ;  and  his  poems  in  the 
ancient  language,^ hough  much  praised  by  those  who 
L  ave  never  read  themJ  are  wretched  compositions. 
Cowley,  with  all  his  admirable  wit  and  ingenuity,  had 
little  imagination;  nor  indeed  do  we  think  his  clas- 
sical diction  comparable  to  that  of  Milton.  The 
authority  of  Johnson  is  against  us  on  this  point.  But 
Johnson  had  studied  the  bad  writers  of  the  middle 
ages  till  he  had  become  utterly  insensible  to  the 
Augustan  elegance,  and  was  as  ill  qualified  to  judge 
between  two  Latin  styles  as  a  habitual  drunkard  to 
set  up  for  a  wine-taster. 

Versification  in  a  dead  language  is  an  exotic,  a  far- 
fetched, costly,  sickly  imitation  of  that  which  elsewhere 
may  be  found  in  healthful  and  spontaneous  perfection. 


'ymjMbdiV'' 


/ 


r  2  LITER  A  R  Y  ESS  A  YS. 

as  ill-suited  to  the  production  of  vigorous  native  poetry 
as  the  flower-pots  of  a  hot-house  to  the  growth  of  oaks. 
That  the  author  of  the  Paradise  Lost  should  have 
written  the  Epistle  to  Manso  was  truly  wonderful. 
Never  before  were  such  marked  originality  and  such 
exquisite  mimicry  found  together.  Indeed, in  all  the 
Latin  poems  of  Milton^the  artificial  manner  indispen- 
sable to  such  works  is  admirably  preserved,  while,  at 
the  same  time,  his  genius  gives  to  them  a  peculiar 
charm,  an  air  of  nobleness  and  freedom,  which  dis- 
tinguishes them  fromall  other  writings  of  the  same 
class.  They  remind  us  of  the  amusements  of  those 
angelic  warriors  who  composed  the  cohort  of  Gabriel : 

"  About  him  exercised  heroic  games 
The  unarmed  youth  of  heaven.     But  o'er  their  heads 
Celestial  armory,  shield,  helm,  and  spear, 
Hung  high,  with  diamond  flaming  and  with  gold." 

We  cannot  look  upon  the  sportive  exercises  for  which 
the  genius  of  Milton  ungirds  itself,  without  catching 
a  glimpse  of  the  gorgeous  and  terrible  panoply  which 
it  is  accustomed  to  wear.  The  strength  of  his  imag- 
ination triumphed  over  every  obstacle.  So  intense 
and  ardent  was  the  fire  of  his  mind,  that  it_not  only 
was  not  suffocated  beneath  the  weight  qf_fuel,  but 
penetrated  the  whole  superincumbent  mass  with  its 
own  hea/t  and  radiance. 

Eis  not  our  intention  to  attempt  anything  like  a;0  riK 
plete  examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton.  The 
public  has  long  been  agreed  as  to  the  merit  of  the 
most  remarkable  passages,  the  incomparable  harmony 
of  the  numbers,  and  the  excellence  of  that_§tvle^which 
no  rival  has  been  able  to  equal,  and  no  parodist  to 
degrade,   which   displays   in  their  highest  perfection 


MILTON.  13 

the  idiomistic  powers  of  the  English  tongue,  and  to 
which  every  ancient  and  every  modern  language  has 
contributed  something  of  grace,  of  energy,  or  of  music. 
In  the  vast  field  pf  criticism  on  which  we  are  enter- 
ing  innumerable  reapers  have  already  put  their  sickles.  "t** 
Yet_the  harvest  is  so  abundant  that  the  negligent 
search  of  a  straggling  gleaner  may  be  rewarded  with 
a  sheaf. 

The  most  striking  characteristic  of  thepoetry  of  *f*  p  ] 
Milton  Is  the  extreme  remoJejie^orThe^associations^-     » 
by  means  of  which  it  acts  on  the  reader.     Its  effect  iS 
jV^^produced,  notso  much  by  what  it  expresses,  as  byj 
jec*  what  it  suggests ;  not  so  much  by_  tlie^ideas  which  if 
*^f  directly  conveys,  as  by  other  ideas  which  are  connected 
•^J  with  them.      He  electrifies  the  mind  through  con-  0/    y 
j  'yductors.     The  most  unimaginative  man  must  under-      "•*"*'' 
\  ^stand   the   Iliad.     Homer  gives  him  no  choice,  and  f^^j, 
rc^requires  from  him  no  exertion,  but  takes  the  whole  k^wE 
•upon  himself,  and  sets  the  images  in  so  clear  a  light, 
hat  it  is  impossible  to  be  blind  to  them.     The  works 
f  Milton  cannot  be  comprehended  or  enjoyed,  unless 

mind   of  the  reader  co-operate  with  that  of  the  fijf-a. 
rijer.     He  does  not  paint  a  finished  picture,  or  play  ^fr*^~- 
or  a  mere  passive  listener.     He  sketches,  and  leaves         tt£ 
others  to  fill  up  the  outline.      He  strikes  the   key-        " 
note,    and    expects    his    hearer    to    make    out    the 
melody. 

We  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry. 
The  expression  in  general  mea^ns  nothing  :  but,  applied 
to  the  writings  of  Milton,  it  isWost  appropriate.  His 
poetry  acts  like  an  incantation.,  Its  merit  lies  less  in  /O 
its  obvious  meaning  than  in  itXoccjiJt  power.  There 
would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  no  mS^e  in  his  words 
than  in  other  words.     But  they  are  woraVoj"  ejidiaj)!-  ^ 


14  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

i£  ment.     No  sooner  are  they  pronounced,  than  the  past 

is  present  and  the  distant  near,     New  forms  of  beauty 
)  start  at  once  into  existence,  and  all  the  burial-places 
^  <      I  of  the  memory  give  up  their  dead.     Change  the  struc- 
ture  of  the   sentence;    substitute  one^ svnonyme  for 
P  another,  and  the  whole  effect  is  destroyed.    The  spell 

If  loses  its  power ;  and  he  who  should  then  hope  to  con- 

jure with  it  would  find  himself  as  much  mistaken  as 
l|  Cassim  in  the  Arabian  tale,  when  he  stood  crying, 
,  I  "  Open  Wheat,'1  "  Open  Barley/'  to  the  door  which 
"^t*    obeyed  no  sound  but  "Open  Sesame."     The  miser- 
<£/Wi    /  able  failure  of  Dryden  in  his  attempt  to  translate  into 
J  his  own  diction  some  part  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  is  a 
I  remarkable  instance  of  this. 
•iV  In  support  of  these  observations,  we  may  remark, 

'•/  that  scarcely  any  passages  in  the  poems  of  Milton  are 
more  generally  known  or  more  frequently  repeated 
than  those  which  are  little  more  than  muster-rolls  of 
names.  They  are  not  always  more  appropriate  or 
rnnrp^flglnHirmc;  than  other  names.  But  they  are 
rfX'vi*^-''  charmed  name^^^iiexyi^ene^dithem  is  the  first  link 
in  a  long  chain  of  associated  ideas.     Like  the  dwell- 


<lr*A»*  ing-place  of  our  infancy  revisited  in  manhood,  like  the 

>,  i/iffrt,  song  of  our  country  heard  in  a  strange  land,  they 
produce  upon  us  an  effect  wholly  independent  of  their 
intrinsic  value.     One  transports  us  back  to  a  remote 

f  /?>  period  of  history.  Another  places  us  among  the  novel 
'  scenes  and  manners  of  a  distant  region.  A  third 
evokes  all  the  dear  classical  recollections  of  child- 
hood, the  school-room,  the  dog-eared  Virgil,  the  hol- 

^jL  "  iday  and  the  prize.  A  fourth  brings  before  us  the 
splendid  phantoms  of  chivalrous  romance,  the  trophied 

>a  lists,  the  embroidered  housings,  the  quaint  devices,  the 
haunted  forests7"ffie~  VncrI|[nte^^aTdens?~tlie"^achieve- 


Jtf*Hil'J^&t>* 


MIL  TON.  1 5 

ments  of  enamored  knights,  and  the  smiles  of  rescued 
princesses. 

In  none  of  the  works  of  Milton  is  his  peculiar  man-J//^^ 
ner  more  happily  displayed  than  in  Allegro  and  the 
Penseroso.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  that  the 
mechanism  of  language  can  be  brought  to  a  more 
exquisite  degree  of  perfection.  These  poems  differ 
from  others,  as  atar  of  roses  differ  from  ordinary  rose  -<^v, 
water,  the  close  packed  essence  from  the  thin  diluted 
mixture.  They  are  indeed  not  so  much  poems.  as_ 
collections  of  hints,  from  each  of  which  the  reader  is 
to  make  out  a  poem  for  himself.  Every  epithet  is  a 
text  for  a  stanza. 

The  Comus  and  the  Samson  Agonistes  are  works 
which,  though    of   very  different    merit,    offer   some 
marked  points  of  resemblance.     Both  are  lyric  poems  c  j     y 
in  the  form  of  plays.     There  are  perhaps  no  two  kinds  v*^l/ 
of  composition  so  essentially  dissimilar  as  the  drama 
and  the  ode.     The  business  of  the  dramatist   is   to 
keep  himself  out  of  sight,  and  to  let  nothing  appear 
but  his  characters.     As  soon  as  he  attracts  notice  to 
his  personal   feelings,   the   illusion   is  broken.     The 
effect  is  as  unpleasant  as  that  which  is  produced  on  r\    , 
the  stage  by  the  voice  of  a  prompter  or  the  entrance  'u^yi, 
of  a  scene-shifter.     Hence  it  was,  that  the  tragedies  /i    u M 
of  Byron   were    his    least    successful    performances. 
They  resemble   those  pasteboard   pictures  invented 
1  y  the  friend  of  children,  Mr.  Newbury,  in  which  a      V 
single    movable    head  goes   round   twenty   different 
bodies,  so  that  the  same  face  looks  out  upon  us  suc- 
cessively, from  the  uniform  of  a  hussar,  the  furs  of  a 
judge,  and  the  rags  of  a  beggar.       In  all  the  char- 
acters, patriots   and    tyrants,,    h?f*»rg    onH   lnwprgl  fMP     ^ 
frown  and  sneer  of  Harold  were  discernible  in  an  in-      '  *** 


LITERARY  ESSAYS.         g    < 

stant.  But  this  species  of  egotisgu  though  fatal  to  the 
drama,  is  the  inspiration  of  the  ode.  It  is  the  part  of 
the  lyric  poet  to  abandon  himself,  without  reserve,  to 
his  own  emotion. 

Between  these  hostile  elements  many  great  men 
have  endeavored  to  effect  an  amalgamation,  but  never 
with  complete  success.  The  Greek  Drama,  on  the 
model  of  which  the  Samson  was  written,  sprang  from 
the  Ode.  The  dialogue  was  ingrafted  on  the  chorus, 
and  naturally  partook  of  its  character.  The  genius  of 
the  greatest  of  the  Athenian  dramatists  co-operated 
with  the  circumstances  under  which  tragedy  made  its 
first  appearance.  yEschylus  was,  head  and  heart,  a 
lyric  poet.  In  his  time,  the  Greeks  had  far  more 
intercourse  with  the  East  than  in  the  days  of  Homer, 
and  they  had  not  yet  acquired  that  immense  superior- 
ity in  war,  in  science,  and  in  the  arts,  which,  in  the  fol- 
lowing generation,  led  them  to  treat  the  Asiatics  with 
contempt.  From  the  narrative  of  Herodotus  it  should 
seem  that  they  still  looked  up,  with  the  disciples,  to 
Egypt  and  Assyria.  At  this  period,  accordingly,  it 
was  natural  that  the  literature  of  Greece  should  be 
tinctured  with  the  Oriental  style.  And  that  style,  we 
think,  is  discernible  in  the  works  of  Pindar  and 
^Eschylus.  The  latter  often  reminds  us  of  the  He- 
brew writers.  The  book  of  Job,  indeed,  in  conduct 
and  diction,  bears  a  considerable  resemblance  to  some 
of  ^is_  dramas.  Considered  as  plays,  his  works  are 
absurd ;  considered^  as  choruses,  they  anTabove  ajl 
praise.  If,  for  instance,  we  examine  the  address  of 
Clytemnestra  to  Agamemnon  on  his  return,  or  the 
description  of  the  seven  Argive  chiefs,  by  the  princi- 
ples of  dramatic  writing,  we  shall  instantly  condemn 
them  as   monstrous.     But  if  we  forget  the  characters, 


MILTON.  \y 

and  think  only  of  the  poetry,  we  shall  admit  that  it 
has  never  been  surpassed  in  energy  and  magnificence. 
Sophocles  made  the  Greek  drama  as  dramatic  as  was 
consistent  with  its  original  form.     His    portraits   of 
men  have  a  sort  of  similarity  ;  but  it  is Jhe  similarity 
not  of  a  painting  but  of  a  bas-relief.     It  suggests  ai 
resemblance ;    but  it  does  not   produce   an   illusion,  f 
Euripides  attempted  to  carry  the  reform  further.     But 
it  was  a  task  far  beyojioLh.is  powers,  perhaps  beyond 
anypowers.     Instead  of  correcting  what  was  bad,  /^£^ 
he  destroyed  what  was    excellent.      He    substituted   ij. 
crutches  for  stilts,  bad  sermons  for  good  odes. 

Milton,  it  is  well  known,  admired  Euripides  highly, 
much  more  highly  than,  in  our  opinion,  Euripides 
deserved.  Indeed,  the  caresses  which  this  partiality 
leads  our  countryman  to  bestow  on  "  sad  Electra's 
poet,1'  sometimes  remind  us  of  the  beautiful  Queen  of 
Fairy-land  kissing  the  long  ears  of  Bottom.  At  all 
events,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  veneration  for 
the  Athenian,  whether  just  or  not,  was  injurious  to  the 
Samson  Agonistes.  Had  Milton  taken  /Eschylus  for 
his  model,  he  would  have  given  himself  up  to  the  lyric 
inspiration,  and  poured  out  profusely  all  the  treasures 
of  his  mind,  without  bestowing  a  thought  on  those 
dramatic  proprieties  which  the  nature  of  the  work 
rendered  it  impossible  to  preserve.  In  the  attempt  to 
reconcile  things  in  their  own  nature  inconsistent,  he 
has  failed,  as  every  one  else  must  have  failed.  We 
cannot  identify  ourselves  with  the  characters,  as  in  a 
good  play.  We  cannot  identify  ourselves  with  the 
poet,  as  in  a  good  ode.  The  conflicting  ingredients, 
like  an  acid  and  an  alkali  mixed,  neutralize  each  other.  fyjirfL 
We  are  by  no  means  insensible  to  the  merits  of  this 
celebrated  piece,  to  the  severe  dignity  of  the  style,  the 


1 8  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

graceful  and  pathetic  solemnity  of  the  opening  speech, 
or  the  wild  and  barbaric  melody  which  gives  so 
striking  an  effect  to  the  choral  passages.  But  we 
think  it,  we  confess,  the  least  successful  effort  of  the 
,  genius  of  Milton. 

^      *v  The  Comus  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Italian 
J\lasque,  as  the  Samson  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the 

i  *      Greek  Tragedy.    It  is  certainly  the  noblest  performance 
a  t  of  the  kind  which  exists  in  any  language.     It  is  as  far 

''"  superior  to  the  Faithful  Shepherdess,  as  the  Faith- 
/-^ful  Shepherdess  is  to  the  Aminta,  or  the  Aminta  to 
the  Pastor  Fido.  It  was  well  for  Milton  that  he  had 
here  no  Euripides  to  mislead  him.  He  understood 
and  loved  the  literature  of  modern  Italy.  But  he  did 
not  feel  for  it  the  same  veneration  which  he  entertained 
for  the  remains  of  Athenian  and  Roman  poetry,  con- 
secrated by  so  many  lofty  and  endearing  recollections. 
The  faults,  moreover,  of  his  Italian  predecessors  were 
of  a  kind  to  which  his  mind  had  a  deadly  antipathy. 
He  could  stoop  to  a  plain  style,  sometimes  even  to  a 
bald  style  ;  but  false  brilliancy  was  his  utter  aversion. 
His  muse  had  no  objection  to  a  russet  attire ;  but  she 

{*  turned  with  disgust  from  the  finery  of  Guarini.  as  taw- 
dry, and  as  paltry  as  the  rags  of  a  chimney-sweeper 
on  May-day.  Whatever  ornaments  she  wears  are  of 
massive  gold,  not  only  dazzling  to  the  sight,  but  capa- 
ble of  standing  the  severest  test  of  the  crucible. 

Milton  attended  in  the  Comus  to  the  distinction 
which  he  afterwards  neglected  in  the  Samson.  He 
made  his  Masque  what  it  ought  to  be,  essentially 
lyrical,  and  dramatic  only  in  semblance.  He  has  not 
attempted  a  fruitless  struggle  against  a  defect  inherent 
in  the  nature  of  that  species  of  composition ;  and  he 
wherever  success  was   not 


MILTON.  ig 

impossible.  The  speeches  must  be  read  as  majestic 
soliloquies  ;  and  he  who  so  reads  them  will  be  enrap- 
tured with  their  eloquence,  their  sublimity,  and  their 
music.  The  interruptions  of  the  dialogue,  however, 
impose  a  constraint  upon  the  writer,  and  break  the 
illusion  of  the  reader.  The  finest  passages  are  those 
which  are  lyric  in  form  as  well  as  in  spirit.  "  I  should 
much  commend,11  says  the  excellent  Sir  Henry  Wotten 
in  a  letter  to  Milton,  "  the  tragical  part  if  the  lyrical 
did  not  ravish  me  with  a  certain  Dorique  delicacy  in 
your  songs  and  odes,  whereunto,  I  must  plainly  con- 
fess to  you,  I  have  seen  yet  nothing  parallel  in  our 
language."  The  criticism  was  just.  It  is  when 
Milton  escapes  from  the  shackles  of  the  dialogue, 
when  he  is  discharged  from  the  labor  of  uniting  two 
incongruous  styles,  when  he  is  at  liberty  to  indulge 
his  choral  raptures  without  reserve,  that  he  rises  even 
above  himself.  Then,  like  his  own  good  Genius 
bursting  from  the  earthly  form  and  weeds  of  Thyrsis, 
he  stands  forth  in  celestial  freedom  and  beauty ;  he 
seems  to  cry  exultingly, 

"  Now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly  or  I  can  run," 

to  skim  the  ear.th,  to  soar  above  the  clouds,  to  bathe 
in  the  Elysian  dew  of  the  rainbow,  and  to  inhale  the 
balmy  smells  of  nard  and  cassia,  which  the  musky 
winds  of  the  zephyr  scatter  through  the  cedared  alleys 
of  the  Hesperides. 

There  are  several  of  the  minor  poems  of  Milton  on 
which  we  would  willingly  make  a  few  remarks.  Still 
more  willingly  would  we  enter  into  a  detailed  examina- 
tion of  that  admirable  poem,  the  Paradise  Regained, 
which,  strangely  enough,  is  scarcely  ever  mentioned 


20  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

except  as  an  instance  of  the  blindness  of  the  parental 
affection  which  men  of  letters  bear  towards  the  off- 
spring of  their  intellects.  That  Milton  was  mistaken 
in  preferring  this  work,  excellent  as  it  is,  to  the 
Paradise  Lost,  we  readily  admit.  But  we  are  sure- 
| that  the  superiority  of  the  Paradise  Lost  to  the 
Paradise  Regained  is  not  more  decided  than  the 
superiority  of  the  Paradise  Regained  to  every  poem_ 
which  has  since  made  its  appearance.  Our  limits, 
however,  prevent  us  from  discussing  the  point  at 
length.  We  hasten  on  to  that  extraordinary  pro- 
duction which  the  general  suffrage  of  critics  has 
placed  in  the  highest  class  of  human  compositions. 
~  The  only  poem  of  modern  times  which  can  be 
|  compared  with  the  Paradise  Lost  is  the  Divine 
[Comedy.  The  subject  of  Milton,  in  some  points, 
resembled  that  of  Dante ;  but  he  has  treated  it  in  a 
widely  different  manner.  We  cannot,  we  think,  better 
illustrate  our  opinion  respecting  our  own  great  poet 
than  by  contrasting  him  with  the  father  of  Tuscan 
literature. 

The  poetry  of  Milton  differs  from  that  of  Dante,  as 
the  hieroglyphics  of  Egypt  differed  from  the  picture- 
writing  of  Mexico.  The  images  which  Dante  employs 
speak  for  themselves  ;  they  stand  simply  for  what  they 
are.  Those  of  Milton  have  a  signification  which  is 
often  discernible  only  to  the  initiated.  Their  value 
depends  less  on  what  they  directly  represent  than  on 
what  they  remotely  suggest.  However  strange,  how- 
ever grotesque,  may  be  the  appearance  which  Dante 
undertakes  to  describe,  he  never  shrinks  from  describ- 
ing it.  He  gives  us  the  shape,  the  color,  the  sound, 
the  smell,  the  taste  ;  he  counts  the  numbers  ;  he  meas- 
ures the  size.     His  similes  are  the  illustrations  of  a 


MILTON.  21 

traveller.  Unlike  those  of  other  poets,  and  especially 
of  Milton,  they  are  introduced  in  a  plain,  business-like 
manner ;  not  for  the  sake  of  any  beauty  in  the  objects 
from  which  they  are  drawn ;  not  for  the  sake  of  any 
ornament  which  they  may  impart  to  the  poem ;  but 
simply  in  order  to  make  the  meaning  of  the  writer  as 
clear  to  the  reader  as  it  is  to  himself.  The  ruins  of 
the  precipice  which  led  from  the  sixth  to  the  seventh 
circle  of  hell  were  like  those  of  the  rock  which  fell 
into  the  Adige  on  the  south  of  Trent.  The  cataract 
of  Phlegethon  was  like  that  of  Aqua  Cheta  at  the 
monastery  of  St.  Benedict.  The  place  where  the 
heretics  were  confined  in  burning  tombs  resembled 
the  vas^cemetery  of  Aries. 

Now  let  us  compare  with  the  exact  details  of  Dante 
the  dim  intimations  of  Milton.  We  will  cite  a  few 
examples.  The  English  poet  has  never  thought  of 
taking  the  measure  of  Satan.  He  gives  us  merely  a 
vague  idea  of  vast  bulk.  In  one  passage  the  fiend 
lies  stretched  out  huge  in  length,  floating  many  a 
rood,  equal  in  size  to  the  earth-born  enemies  of  Jove, 
or  to  the  sea-monster  which  the  mariner  mistakes  for 
an  island.  When  he  addresses  himself  to  battle 
against  the  guardian  angels,  he  stands  like  Teneriffe 
or  Atlas  :  his  stature  reaches  the  sky.  Contrast  with 
these  descriptions  the  lines  in  which  Dante  has  de- 
scribed the  gigantic  spectre  of  Nimrod.  "  His  face 
seemed  to  me  as  long  and  as  broad  as  the  ball  of  St. 
Peters  at  Rome  ;  and  his  other  limbs  were  in  propor- 
tion ;  so  that  the  bank,  which  concealed  him  from  the 
waist  downwards,  nevertheless  showed  so  much  of  him, 
that  three  tall  Germans  would  in  vain  have  attempted 
to  reach  to  his  hair.1'  We  are  sensible  that  we  do  no 
justice  to  the  admirable  style  of  the  Florentine  poet. 


22  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

But  Mr.  Cary's  translation  is  not  at  hand  ;  and  our 
version,  however  >ude,  is  sufficient  to  illustrate  our 
meaning. 

Once  more,  compare  the  lazar-house  in  the  eleventh 
book  of  the  Paradise  Lost  with  the  last  ward  of  Male- 
bolge  in  Dante.  Milton  avoids  the  loathsome  details, 
and  takes  refuge  in  indistinct  but  solemn  and  tremen- 
dous imagery.  Despair  hurrying  from  couch  to  couch  to 
mock  the  wretches  with  his  attendance,  Death  shak- 
ing his  dart  over  them,  but,  in  spite  of  supplications, 
delaying  to  strike.  What  says  Dante?  "There  was 
such  a  moan  there  as  there  would  be  if  all  the  sick 
who,  between  July  and  September,  are  in  the  hospi- 
tals of  Valdichiana,  and  of  the  Tuscan  swamps,  and 
of  Sardinia,  were  in  one  pit  together ;  and  such  a 
stench  was  issuing  forth  as  is  wont  to  issue  from 
decayed  limbs.11 

We  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  the  invidious 
office  of  settling  precedencv'between  two  such  writ- 
ers. Each  in  his  own  department  is  incomparable ; 
and  each,  we  may  remark,  has  wisely,  or  fortunately, 
taken  a  subject  adapted  to  exhibit  his  peculiar  talent 
to  the  greatest  advantage.  The  Divine  Comedy  is  a, 
personal  narrative.  Dante  is  the  eye-witness  and  ear- 
witness  of  that  which  he  relates.  He  is  the  very  man 
[who  has  heard  the  tormented  spirits  crying  out  for 
the  second  death,  who  has  read  the  dusky  characters 
on  the  portal  within  which  there  is  no  hope,  who  has 
hidden  his  face  from  the  terrors  of  the  Gorgon,  who 
ihas  fled  from  the  hooks  and  the  seething  pitch  of 
'Barbariccia  and  Draghignazzo.  His  own  hands  have 
grasped  the  shaggy  sides  of  Lucifer.  His  own  feet 
have  climbed  the  mountain  of  expiation.  His  own 
brow  has  been  marked  by  the  purifying  angel.     The 


MILTON.  23 

reader  would  throw  aside  such  a  tale  in  incredulous 
disgust,  unless  it  were  told  with  the  strongest  air  of 
veracity,  with  a  sobriety  even  in  its  horrors,  with  the 
greatest  precision  and  multiplicity  in  its  details.  The 
narrative  of  Milton  in  this  respect  differs  from  that  of 
Dante,  as  the  adventures  of  Amadis  differ  from  those 
of  Gulliver.  The  author  of  Amadis  would  have  made 
his  book  ridiculous  if  he  had  introduced  those  minute 
particulars  which  give  such  a  charm  to  the  work  of 
Swift,  the  nautical  observations,  the  affected  delicacy 
about  names,  the  official  documents  transcribed  at  full  I  'isJ\ 
length,  and  all  the  unmeaning  gossip  and  scandal  of 
the  court,  springing  out  of  nothing,  and  tending  to 
nothing.  We  are  not  shocked  at  being  told  that  a 
man  who  lived,  nobody  knows  when,  saw  many  very 
strange  sights,  and  we  can  easily  abandon  ourselves 
to  the  illusion  of  the  romance.  But  when  Lemuel 
Gullivej^surgeon,  resident  at  Rotherhithe,  tells  us  of 
pygmies  and  giants,  dying  islands,  and  philosophizing 
horses,  nothing  but  such  circumstantial  touches  could 
produce  for  a  single  moment  a  deception  on  the 
imagination. 

Of  all  the  poets  who  have  introduced  into  their"] 
works  the  agency  of  supernatural  beings,  Milton  hasj 
succeeded  best.  Here  Dante  decidedly  yields  to  him  : 
and  as  this  is  a  point  on  which  many  rash  and  ill- 
considered  judgments  have  been  pronounced,  we  feel 
inclined  to  dwell  on  it  a  little  longer.  The  most 
fatal  error  which  a  poet  can  possibly  commit  in  the 
management  of  his  machinery,  is  that  of  attempting 
to  philosophize  too  much.  Milton  has  been  often 
censured  for  ascribing  to  spirits  many  functions  of 
which  spirits  must  be  incapable.  But  these  objec- 
tions, though  sanctioned  by  eminent  names,  originate, 


? 


24  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

we  venture  to  say,  in  profound  ignorance  of  the  an 
of  poetry. 

What;  is  spirit?  What  are  our  own  minds,  the 
portion  of  spirit  with  which  we  are  best  acquainted? 
We  observe  certain  phenomena.  We  cannot  explain 
them  into  material  causes.     We  therefore  infer  that 

V  there  exists  something  which  is  not  material.  But 
of  this  something  we  have  no  idea.  We  can  define 
it  only  by  negatives.  We  can  reason  about  it  only 
by  symbols.  We  use  the  word :  but  we  have  no 
Zi&  image  of  the  thing ;  and  the  business  of  poetry  is 

with  images,  and  not  with  words.  The  poet  uses 
words  indeed ;  but  they  are  merely  the  instruments 
of  his  art,  not  its  objects.  They  are  the  materials 
\  (  which  he  is  to  dispose  in  such  a  manner  as  to  present 
a  picture  to  the  mental  eye.  And  if  they  are  not  so 
disposed,  they  are  no  more  entitled  to  be  called  poetry 
than  a  bale  of  canvas  and  a  box  of  colors  to  be  called 
a  painting. 
~7~~  C  Logicians  may  reason  about  abstractions.  But  the 
/  j^reat  mass  of  men  must  have  images.  The  strong 
tendency  of  the  multitude  in  all  ages  and  nations  to 
idolatry  can  be  explained  on  no  other  principle.  The 
first  inhabitants  of  Greece,  there  is  reason  to  believe, 
worshipped  one  invisible  Deity.  But  the  necessity 
of  having  something  more  definite  to  adore  produced, 
in  a  few  centuries,  the  innumerable  crowd  of  Gods 
and  Goddesses.  In  like  manner  the  ancient  Persians 
thought  it  impious  to  exhibit  the  Creator  under  a 
human  form.  Yet  even  these  transferred  to  the  Sun 
the  worship  which,  in  speculation,  they  considered  due 
only  to  the  Supreme  Mind.  The  History  of  the  Jews 
is  the  record  of  a  continued  struggle  between  pure 
Theism,  supported  by  the  most   terrible   sanctions, 


MILTON,  25 

and  the  strangely  fascinating  desire  of  having  some 
visible  and  tangible  object  of  adoration.  Perhaps 
none  of  the  secondary  causes  which  Gibbon  has  as- 
signed for  the  rapidity  with  which  Christianity  spreadj 
over  the  world,  while  Judaism  scarcely  ever  acquired  I 
a  proselyte,  operated  more  powerfully  than  this  feel- I 
ing.  God^Jti^jmcreated,  the  incomprehensible,  the 
invisible,  attracted  few  worshippers.  A  philosopher 
might  admire  so  noble  a  conception :  but  the  crowd 
turned  away  in  disgust  from  words  which  presented 
no  image  to  their  minds.  It  was  before  Deity  em- 
bodied in  a  human  form,  walking  among  men,  par- 
taking of  their  infirmities,  leaning  on  their  bosoms, 
weeping  over  their  graves,  slumbering  in  the  manger, 
bleeding  on  the  cross,  that  the  prejudices  of  the 
Synagogue,  and  the  doubts  of  the  Academy,  and  the  i^y^t^J/U 
pride  of  the  portico,  and  the  fasces  of  the  Lictor,  and 
the  swords  of  thirty  legions,  were  humbled  in  the  dust. 
Soon  after  Christianity  had  achieved  its  triumph,  the 
principle  which  had  assisted  it  began  to  corrupt  it. 
It  became  a  new  Paganism.  Patron  saints  assumed 
the  offices  of  household  gods.  St.  George  took  the 
place  of  Mars.  St.  Elmo  consoled  the  mariner  for 
the  loss  of  Castor  and  Pollux.  The  Virgin  Mother 
and  Cecilia  succeeded  to  Venus  and  the  Muses.  The 
fascination  of  sex  and  loveliness  was  again  joined  to 
that  of  celestial  dignity ;  and  the  homage  of  chivalry 
was  blended  with  that  of  religion.  Reformers  have 
often  made  a  stand  against  these  feelings  ;  but  never 
with  more  than  apparent  and  partial  success.  The 
men  who  demolished  the  images  in  Cathedrals  have 
not  always  been  able  to  demolish  those  which  were 
enshrined  in  their  minds.  It  would  not  be  difficult 
to  show  that  in  politics  the  same  rule  holds  good. 


26  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Doctrines,  we  are  afraid,  must  generally  be  embodied 
before  they  can  excite  a  strong  public  feeling.  The 
multitude  is  more  easily  interested  for  the  most  un- 
meaning badge,  or  the  most  insignificant  name,  than 
for  the  most  important  principle. 
yV  From  these  considerations,  we  infer  that  no  poet, 
who  should  affect  that  metaphysical  accuracy  for  the 
want  of  which  Milton  has  been  blamed,  would  escape 
a  disgraceful  failure.  Still,  however,  there  was  an- 
other extreme,  which,  though  far  less  dangerous,  was 
also  to  be  avoided.  The  imaginations  of  men  are  in 
a  great  measure  under  the  control  of  their  opinions. 
The  most  exquisite  art  of  poetical  coloring  can  pro- 
duce no  illusion,  when  it  is  employed  to  represent 
that  which  is  at  once  perceived  to  be  incongruous 
and  absurd.  Milton  wrote  in  an_age  of  philosophers 
and  theologiajis.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  for  him 
to  abstain  from  giving  such  a  shock  to  their  under- 
standings as  might  break  the  charm  which  it  was  his 
object  to  throw  over  their  imaginations.  This  is  the 
real  explanation  of  the  indistinctness  and  inconsist- 
ency with  which  he  has  often  been  reproached.  Dr. 
Johnson  acknowledges  that  it  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  the  spirit  should  be  clothed  with  material 
forms.  "But,"  says  he,  "the  poet  should  have 
secured  the  consistency  of  his  system  by  keeping 
immateriality  out  of  sight,  and  seducing  the  reader  to 
drop  it  from  his  thoughts.  "  This  is  easily  said ; 
but  what  if  Milton  could  not  seduce  his  readers  to 
drop  immateriality  from  their  thoughts?  What  if 
the  contrary  opinion  had  taken  so  fully  possession 
of  the  minds  of  men  as  to  leave  no  room  even  for  the 
half  belief  which  poetry  requires  ?  Such  we  suspect 
to  have  been  the  case.     It  was  impossible  for  the 


MILTON.  2J 

poet  to  adopt  altogether  the  material  or  the  immaterial 
system.  He  therefore  took  his  stand  on  the  debat- 
able ground.  He  left  the  whole  in  ambiguity.  He 
has,  doubtless,  by  so  doing,  laid  himself  open  to  the 
charge  of  inconsistency.  But,  though  philosophically 
in  the  wrong,  we  cannot  but  believe  that  he  was 
poetically  in  the  right.  This  task,  which  almost  any 
other  writer  would  have  found  impracticable,  was 
easy  to  him.  The  peculiar  art  which  he  possessed 
of  communicating  his  meaning  circuitously  through 
a  long  succession  of  associated  ideas,  and  of  intimat- 
ing more  than  he  expressed,  enabled  him  to  disguise 
those  incongruities  which  he  could  not  avoid. 

Poetry  which  relates  to  the  beings  of  another  world 
ought  to  be  at  once  mysterious  and  picturesque. 
That  of  Milton  is  so.  That  of  Daivte_Js_nJclirresflue 
indeed  beyond  any  that  was  ever  written.  Its  effect 
approaches  to  that  produced  by  the  pencil  or  the 
chisel.  But  it  is  picturesque  to  the  exclusion  of  all 
mystery.  This  is  a  fault  on  the  right  side,  a  fault 
inseparable  from  the  plan  of  Dante's  poem,  which,  as 
we  have  already  observed,  rendered  the  utmost  accu- 
racy of  description  necessary.  Still  it  is  a  fault.  The 
supernatural  agents  excite  an  interest ;  but  it  is  not 
the  interest  which  is  proper  to  supernatural  agents. 
We  feel  that  we  could  talk  to  the  ghosts  and  daemons 
without  any  emotion  of  unearthly  awe.  We  could, 
like  Don  Juan,  ask  them  to  supper,  and  eat  heartily 
in  their  company.  Dante's  angels  are  good  men  with 
wings.  His  devils  are  spiteful,  ugly  executioners. 
His  dead  men  are  merely  living  men  in  strange  situa- 
tions. The  scene  which  passes  between  the  poet  and 
Farinata  is  justly  celebrated.  Still,  Farinata  in  the 
burning  tomb  is    exactly  what  Farinata  would  have 


28  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

been  at  an  auto  da  fe.  Nothing  can  be  more  touch- 
ing than  the  first  interview  of  Dante  and  Beatrice. 
Yet  what  is  it,  but  a  lovely  woman  chiding,  with 
sweet  austere  composure,  the  lover  for  whose  affec- 
tion she  is  grateful,  but  whose  vices  she  reprobates? 
The  feelings  which  give  the  passage  its  charm  would 
suit  the  streets  of  Florence  as  well  as  the  summit  of 
the  Mount  of  Purgatory. 

The  spirits  of  Milton  are  unlike  those  of  almost  all 
other  writers.  His  fiends,  in  particular,  are  wonder- 
ful creations.  They  are  not  metaphysical  abstrac- 
tions. They  are  not  wicked  men.  They  are  not 
ugly  beasts.  They  have  no  horns,  no  tails,  none  of 
the  fee-faw-fum  of  Tasso  and  Klopstock.  They  have 
just  enough  in  common  with  human  nature  to  be 
intelligible  to  human  beings.  Their  characters  are, 
like  their  forms,  marked  by  a  certain  dim  resemblance 
to  those  of  men,  but  exaggerated  to  gigantic  dimen- 
sions, and  veiled  in  mysterious  gloom. 

Perhaps  the  gods  and  daemons  of  ^Eschylus  may 
best  bear  a  comparison  with  the  angels  and  devils  of 
Milton.  The  style  of  the  Athenian  had,  as  we  have 
remarked,  something  of  the  Oriental  character ;  and 
the  same  peculiarity  may  be  traced  in  his  mythology. 
It  has  nothing  of  the  amenity  and  elegance  which  we 
generally  find  in  the  superstitions  of  Greece.  All  is 
rugged,  barbaric,  and  colossal.  The  legends  of 
^Eschylus  seem  to  harmonize  less  with  the  fragrant 
groves  and  graceful  porticoes  in  which  his  country- 
men paid  their  vows  to  the  God  of  Light  and  God- 
dess of  Desire,  than  with  those  huge  and  grotesque 
labyrinths  of  eternal  granite  in  which  Egypt  enshrined 
her  mystic  Osiris,  or  in  which  Hindostan  still  bows 
down  to  her  seven-headed  idols.     His  favorite  gods 


MILTON.  29 

are  those  of  the  elder  generation,  the  sons  of  heaven 
and  earth,  compared  with  whom  Jupiter  himself  was 
a  stripling  and  an  upstart,  the  gigantic  Titans,  and 
the  inexorable  Furies.  Foremost  among  his  creations 
of  this  class  stands  Prometheus,  half  fiend,  half  re- 
deemeiV-the. friend  of  man,  the  sullen  and  implacable  * 
enemy  of  heaven.  Prometheus  bears  undoubtedly  a 
considerable  resemblance  to  the  Satan  of  Milton.  In 
both  we  find  the  same  impatience  of  ccmtrolj_the 
same  ferocity,  the  same  unconquerable  pride.  In 
both"  characters  also  are  mingled,  though  in  very  dif- 
ferent proportions,  some  kind  and  generous  feelings. 
Prometheus,  however,  is  hardly  superhuman  enough. 
He  talks  too  much  of  his  chains  and  his  uneasy  pos- 
ture :  he  is  rather  too  much  depressed  and  agitated. 
His  resolution  seems  to  depend  on  the  knowledge 
which  he  possesses  that  he  holds  the  fate  of  his  tor- 
turer in  his  hands,  and  that  the  hour  of  his  release 
will  surely  come.  But  Satan  is  a  creature  of  another 
sphere.  The  might  of  his  intellectual  nature  is  vic- 
torious over  the  extremity  of  pain.  Amidst  agonies 
which  cannot  be  conceived  without  horror,  he  delib- 
erate^ resol ves^^jmjjj^ygiTjejxin^s-  Against  the  sword 
of  Michael,  against  the  thunder  ofjehovah,  against 
tne  naming  lake,  and__the_  marl  burning  with  Ijoffi* 
fire,  against  the  prospect  of~ali~eteraityrIolr  unin- 
termitted  misery,  his  spirit  bears  up  unbroken,,^, 
resting  on  its  own  innate  energies,  requiring  no 
support  from  anything  external,  nor  even  from  hope 
itself. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  parallel  which  we 
have  been  attempting  to  draw  between  Milton  and 
Dante,  we  would  add  that  the  poetry  of  these  great 
men  has  in  a  considerable  degree  taken  its  character 


30  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

from  their  moral  qualities.  They  are  not  egotists.  They 
rarely  obtrude  their  idiosyncrasies  on  their  readers. 
They  have    nothing  in  common   with  those  modern 

fjM-1  beggars   for   fame,  who  extort   a   pittance    from  the 

^^7  compassion   of  the   inexperienced    by    exposing   the 

*  nakedness  and  sores  of  their  minds.       Yet  it  would 

be  difficult    to  name  two  writers   whose  works  have 

been  more  completely,  though  undesignedly,  colored 

by  their  personal  feelings. 

,  The  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished 

^  by  loftiness  of  spirit ;  that  of  Dante  by  intensity  of 
feeling.  In  every  line  of  the  Divine  Comedy  we  dis- 
cern the  asperity  which  is  produced  by  pride  struggling 
with  misery.  There  is  perhaps  no  worj^ii_th£_wQrld 
so  deeply  and  uniformly  sorrowful.  The  melancholy 
of  Dante  was  no  fantastic  caprice.  It  was  not,  as  far 
as  at  this  distance  of  time  can  be  judged,  the  effect  of 
external  circumstances.     It  was  from  within.    Neither 

^  love  nor  glory,  neither  the  conflicts  of  earth  nor  the 
hope  of  heaven  could  dispel  it.  It  turned  every  con- 
solation and  every  pleasure  into  its  own  nature.  It 
resembled  that  noxious  Sardinian  soil  of  which  the 
intense  bitterness  is  said  to  havelSeen  perceptible 
evenTxiTtsTToney.  His  mind  was,  in  the  noble  lan- 
guage of  the  Hebrew  poet,  <;  a  land  of  darkness,  as 
darkness  itself,  and  where  the  light  was  as  darkness.'1 
The  gloom  of  his  characters  discolors  all  the  passions 
of  men,  and  all  the  face  of  nature,  and  tinges  with  its 
own  livid  hue  the  flowers  of  Paradise  and  the  glories 
of  the  eternal  throne.  All  the  portraits  of  him  are 
singularly  characteristic.  No  person  can  look  on  the 
features,  noble  even  to  ruggedness,  the  dark  furrows 
of  the  cheek,  the  haggard  and  woful  stare  of  the  eye, 
the  sullen  and  contemptuous    curve  of  the   lip,  and 


MILTON.  31 

doubt  that  they  belong  to  a  man  too  proud  and  too 
sensitive  to  be  happy. 

Milton  was,  like  Dante,  a  statesman  and  a  lover; 
and,  like  Dante,  he  had  been  unfortunate  in  ambition 
and  in  love.  He  had  survived  his  health  and  his  sight, 
the  comforts  of  his  home,  and  the  prosperity  of  his  party. 
Of  the  great  men  by  whom  he  had  been  distinguished  ^ 
at  his  entrance  into  life,  some  had  been  taken  away  from  ^**f^ 
the  evil  to  come ;  some  had  carried  into  foreign  cli- 
mates their  unconquerable  hatred  of  oppression  ;  some 
were  pining  in  dungeons ;  and  some  had  poured  forth 
their  blood  on  scaffolds.  Venal  and  licentious  scrib- 
blers, with  just  sufficient  talent  to  clothe  the  thoughts 
of  a  pandar  in  the  style  of  a  bellman,  were  now 
the  favorite  writers  of  the  Sovereign  and  of  the 
public.  It  was  a  loathsome  herd,  which  could  be 
compared  to  nothing  so  fitly  as  to  the  rabble  of 
Comus,  grotesque  monsters,  half  bestial,  half  human, 
dropping  with  wine,  bloated  with  gluttony,  and  reel- 
ing in  obscene  dances.  Amidst  these  that  fair  Muse 
was  placed,  like  the  chaste  lady  of  the  Masque,  lofty, 
spotless,  and  serene,  to  be  chattered  at,  and  pointed 
at,  and  grinned  at,  by  the  whole  rout  of  Satyrs  and 
Godlins.  If  ever  despondency  and  asperity  could  be 
excused  in  any  man,  they  might  have  been  excused 
in  Milton.  But  the  strength  of  his  mind  overcame  ^^ 
every  calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor  gout,  npr__  ^-* 
age,  nor  penury,  noVBoTiiestic  afrlictions,  nor  political  *^* 
~3isappom^ 

^e^ectfha^power  to  disturb  his  seda^ajKLmajestjc 
^tienqeT"  His  spirits  do  not  seem  to  have  been  high, 
but  they  were  singularly  equable.  His  temper  was 
serious,  perhaps  stern  ;  but  it  was  a  temper  which  no 
sufferings  could  render  sullen  or  fretful.     Such  as  it 


32  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

was  when,  on  the  eve  of  great  events,  he  returned 
from  his  travels,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly 
beauty,  loaded  with  literary  distinctions,  and  glowing 
with  patriotic  hopes,  such  it  continued  to  be  when, 
after  having  experienced  every  calamity  which  is  in- 
cident to  our  nature,  old,  poor,  sightless,  and  disgraced, 
he  retired  to  his  hovel  to  die. 

Hence  it  was  that,  though  he  wrote  the  Paradise 
Lost  at  a  time  of  life  when  images  of  beauty  and 
tenderness  are  in  general  beginning  to  fade,  even  from 
those  minds  in  which  they  have  not  been  effaced  by 
anxiety  and  disappointment,  he  adorned  it  with  all  that 
is  most  lovely  and  delightful  in  the  physical  and  in  the 
moral  world.  Neither  Theocritus  nor  Ariosto  had  a 
finer  or  a  more  healthful  sense  of  the  pleasantness  of 
external  objects,  or  loved  better  to  luxuriate  amidst 
sunbeams  and  flowers,  the  songs  of  nightingales,  the 
juice  of  summer  fruits,  and  the  coolness  of  shady  foun- 
tains. His  conception  of  love  unites  all  the  volupt- 
uousness of  the  Oriental  harem,  and  all  the  gallantry 
of  the  chivalric  tournament,  with  all  the  pure  and 
quiet  affection  of  an  English  fireside.  His  poetry 
reminds  us  of  the  miracles  of  Alpine  scenery.  Nooks 
and  dells,  beautiful  as  fairy -land,  are  embosomed  in  its 
most  rugged  and  gigantic  elevations.  The  roses  and 
myrtles  bloom  unchilled  on  the  verge  of  the  avalanche. 

Traces,  indeed,  of  the  peculiar  character  of  Milton 
may  be  found  in  all  his  works  ;  but  it  is  most  strongly 
displayed  in  the  Sonnets.  Those  remarkable  poems 
have  been  undervalued  by  critics  who  have  not  un- 
derstood their  nature.  They  have  no  epigrammatic 
point.  There  is  none  of  the  ingenuity  of  Filicaja  in 
the  thought,  none  of  the  hard  and  brilliant  enamel 
of  Petrarch  in  the  style.     They  are  simple  but  majestic 


MILTON.  33 

records  of  the  feelings  of  the  poet ;  as  little  tricked  out 
for  the  public  eye  as  his  diary  would  have  been.  A 
victory,  an  expected  attack  upon  the  city,  a  momen- 
tary fit  of  depression  or  exultation,  a  jest  thrown  out 
against  one  of  his  books,  a  dream  which  for  a  short 
time  restored  to  him  that  beautiful  face  over  which  the 
grave  had  closed  forever,  led  him  to  musings,  which, 
without  effort,  shaped  themselves  into  verse.  The 
unity  of  sentiment  and  severity  of  style  which  char- 
acterize these  little  pieces  remind  us  of  the  Greek 
Anthology,  or  perhaps  still  more  of  the  Collects 
of  the  English  Liturgy.  The  noble  poem  on  the 
Massacres  of  Piedmont  is  strictly  a  Collect  in  verse. 

The  Sonnets  are  more  or  less  striking,  according  as 
the  occasions  which  gave  birth  to  them  are  more  or 
less  interesting.  But  they  are,  almost  without  excep- 
tion, dignified  by  a  sobriety  and  greatness  of  mind  to 
which  we  know  not  where  to  look  for  a  parallel.  It 
would,  indeed,  be  scarcely  safe  to  draw  any  decided 
inferences  as  to  the  character  of  a  writer  from  passages 
directly  egotistical.  But  the  qualities  which  we  have 
ascribed  to  Milton,  though  perhaps  most  strongly 
marked  in  those  parts  of  his  works  which  treat  of  his 
personal  feelings,  are  distinguishable  in  every  page,  and 
impart  to  all  his  writings,  prose  and  poetry,  English, 
Latin,  and  Italian,  a  strong  family  likeness. 

His  public  conduct  was  such  as  was  to  be  expected 
from  a  man  of  a  spirit  so  high  and  of  an  intellect  so 
powerful.  He  lived  at  one  of  the  most  memorable 
eras  in  the  history  of  mankind,  at  the  very  crisis  of  the 
great  conflict  between  Oromasdes  and  Arimanes,  lib- 
erty and  despotism,  reason  and  prejudice.  That  great 
battle  was  fought  for  no  single  generation,  for  no  single 
land.     The  destinies  of  the  human  race  were  staked 


34  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

on  the  same  cast  with  the  freedom  of  the  English 
people.  Then  were  first  proclaimed  those  mighty 
principles  which  have  since  worked  their  way  into  the 
depths  of  the  American  forests,  which  have  roused 
Greece  from  the  slavery  and  degradation  of  two  thou- 
sand years,  and  which,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the 
other,  have  kindled  an  unquenchable  fire  in  the  hearts 
of  the  oppressed,  and  loosed  the  knees  of  the  oppress- 
ors with  an  unwonted  fear. 

Of  those  principles,  then  struggling  for  their  infant 
existence,  Milton  was  the  most  devoted  and  eloquent 
literary  champion.  We  need  not  say  how  much  we 
admire  his  public  conduct.  But  we  cannot  disguise 
from  ourselves  that  a  large  portion  of  his  countrymen 
still  think  it  unjustifiable.  The  civil  war,  indeed,  has 
been  more  discussed,  and  is  less  understood,  than  any 
event  in  English  history.  The  friends  of  liberty 
labored  under  the  disadvantage  of  which  the  lion  in 
the  fable  complained  so  bitterly.  Though  they  were 
the  conquerors,  their  enemies  were  the  painters.  As  a 
body,  the  Roundheads  had  done  their  utmost  to  decry 
and  ruin  literature  ;  and  literature  was  even  with  them, 
as,  in  the  long  run,  it  always  is  with  its  enemies.  The 
best  book  on  their  side  of  the  question  is  the  charm- 
ing narrative  of  Mrs.  Hutchinson.  May's  History  of 
the  Parliament  is  good  ;  but  it  breaks  off  at  the  most  in- 
teresting crisis  of  the  struggle.  The  performance  of 
Ludlow  is  foolish  and  violent ;  and  most  of  the  later 
writers  who  have  espoused  the  same  cause,  Oldmixon 
for  instance,  and  Catherine  Macaulay,  have,  to  say  the 
least,  been  more  distinguished  by  zeal  than  either  by 
candor  or  by  skill.  On  the  other  side  are  the  most 
authoritative  and  the  most  popular  historical  works  in 
our  language,  that  of  Clarendon,  and  that  of  Hume. 


MILTON.  35 

The  former  is  not  only  ably  written  and  full  of  valuable 
information,  but  has  also  an  air  of  dignity  and  sincer- 
ity which  makes  even  the  prejudices  and  errors  with 
which  it  abounds  respectable.  Hume,  from  whose 
fascinating  narrative  the  great  mass  of  the  reading 
public  are  still  contented  to  take  their  opinions,  hated 
religion  so  much  that  he  hated  liberty  for  having  been 
allied  with  religion,  and  has  pleaded  the  cause  of  tyr- 
anny with  the  dexterity  of  an  advocate  while  affecting 
the  impartiality  of  a  judge. 

The  public  conduct  of  Milton  must  be  approved  or 
condemned  according  as  the  resistance  of  the  people 
to  Charles  the  First  shall  appear  to  be  justifiable  or 
criminal.  We  shall  therefore  make  no  apology  for 
dedicating  a  few  pages  to  the  discussion  of  that  inter- 
esting and  most  important  question.  We  shall  not 
argue  it  on  general  grounds.  We  shall  not  recur  to 
those  primary  principles  from  which  the  claim  of  any 
government  to  the  obedience  of  its  subjects  is  to  be 
deduced.  We  are  entitled  to  that  vantage  ground ; 
but  we  will  relinquish  it.  We  are,  on  this  point,  so 
confident  of  superiority,  that  we  are  not  unwilling  to 
imitate  the  ostentatious  generosity  of  those  ancient 
knights,  who  vowed  to  joust  without  helmet  or  shield 
against  all  enemies,  and  to  give  their  antagonists  the 
advantage  of  sun  and  wind.  We  will  take  the  naked 
constitutional  question.  We  confidently  affirm,  that  / 
every  reason  which  can  be  urged  in  favor  of  the  Revo- 
lution of  1688  may  be  urged  with  at  least  equal  force 
in  favor  of  what  is  called  the  Great  Rebellion.    ,     -  / 

In  one  respect,  only,  we  think  can  the  warmest  ad- 
mirers of  Charles  venture  to  say  that  he  was  a  better 
sovereign  than  his  son.  He  was  not,  in  name  and 
profession,  a  Papist ;  we  say  in  name  and  profession, 


36  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

because  both  Charles  himself  and  his  creature  Laud, 
while  they  abjured  the  innocent  badges  of  Popery, 
retained  all  its  worst  vices,  a  complete  subjection  of 
reason  to  authority,  a  weak  preference  of  form  to  sub- 
stance, a  childish  passion  for  mummeries,  an  idolatrous 
veneration  for  the  priestly  character,  and,  above  all,  a 
merciless  intolerance.  This,  however,  we  waive.  We 
will  concede  that  Charles  was  a  good  Protestant ;  but 
we  say  that  his  Protestantism  does  not  make  the  slight- 
est distinction  between  his  case  and  that  of  James. 

The  principles  of  the  Revolution  have  often  been 
grossly  misrepresented,  and  never  more  than  in  the 
course  of  the  present  year.  There  is  a  certain  class  of 
men  who,  while  they  profess  to  hold  in  reverence  the 
great  names  and  great  actions  of  former  times,  never 
look  at  them  for  any  other  purpose  than  in  order  to 
find  in  them  some  excuse  for  existing  abuses .  I  n  every 
venerable  precedent  they  pass  by  what  is  essential, 
and  take  only  what  is  accidental :  they  keep  out  of 
sight  what  is  beneficial,  and  hold  up  to  public  imita- 
tion all  that  is  defective.  If,  in  any  part  of  any  great 
example,  there  be  anything  unsound,  these  flesh-flies 
detect  it  with  an  unerring  instinct,  and  dart  upon  it 
with  a  ravenous  delight.  If  some  good  end  has  been 
attained  in  spite  of  them,  they  feel,  with  their  proto- 
type, that 

"  Their  labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil." 

To  the  blessings  which  England  has  derived  from 
the  Revolution  these  people  are  utterly  insensible. 
The  expulsion  of  a  tyrant,  the  solemn  recognition  of 
popular  rights,  liberty,  security,  toleration,  all  go  for 
nothing  with  them.     One  sect  there  was,  which,  from 


MILTON.  37 

unfortunate  temporary  causes,  it  was  thought  necessary 
to  keep  under  close  restraint.  One  part  of  the  empire 
there  was  so  unhappily  circumstanced,  that  at  that 
time  its  misery  was  necessary  to  our  happiness,  and 
its  slavery  to  our  freedom.  These  are  the  parts  of  the 
Revolution  which  the  politicians  of  whom  we  speak 
love  to  contemplate,  and  which  seem  to  them  not 
indeed  to  vindicate,  but  in  some  degree  to  palliate, 
the  good  which  it  has  produced.  Talk  to  them  of 
Naples,  of  Spain,  or  of  South  America.  They  stand 
forth  zealots  for  the  doctrine  of  Divine  Right  which 
has  now  come  back  to  us,  like  a  thief  from  transpor- 
tation, under  the  alias  of  Legitimacy.  But  mention 
the  miseries  of  Ireland.  Then  William  is  a  hero. 
Then  Somers  and  Shrewsbury  are  great  men.  Then 
the  Revolution  is  a  glorious  era.  The  very  same 
persons  who,  in  this  country,  never  omit  an  oppor- 
tunity of  reviving  every  wretched  Jacobite  slander 
respecting  the  Whigs  of  that  period,  have  no  sooner 
crossed  St.  George's  Channel  than  they  begin  to  fill 
their  bumpers  to  the  glorious  and  immortal  memory. 
They  may  truly  boast  that  they  look  not  at  men,  but 
at  measures.  So  that  evil  be  done,  they  care  not  who 
does  it ;  the  arbitrary  Charles,  or  the  liberal  William, 
Ferdinand  the  Catholic,  or  Frederic  the  Protestant. 
On  such  occasions  their  deadliest  opponents  may 
reckon  upon  their  candid  construction.  The  bold 
assertions  of  these  people  have  of  late  impressed  a 
large  portion  of  the  public  with  an  opinion  that 
James  the  Second  was  expelled  simply  because  he 
was  a  Catholic,  and  that  the  Revolution  was  essen- 
tially a  Protestant  Revolution. 

But  this  certainly  was  not  the  case ;    nor  can  any 
person   who   has   acquired  more  knowledge   of  the 


38  .  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

history  of  those  times  than  is  to  be  found  in  Gold- 
smith's Abridgment  believe  that,  if  James  had  held 
his  own  religious  opinions  without  wishing  to  make 
proselytes,  or  if,  wishing  even  to  make  proselytes,  he 
had  contented  himself  with  exerting  only  his  con- 
stitutional influence  for  that  purpose,  the  Prince  of 
Orange  would  ever  have  been  invited  over.  Our 
ancestors,  we  suppose,  knew  their  own  meaning ;  and, 
if  we  may  believe  them,  their  hostility  was  primarily 
not  to  popery,  but  to  tyranny.  They  did  not  drive 
out  a  tyrant  because  he  was  a  Catholic ;  but  they 
excluded  Catholics  from  the  crown,  because  they 
thought  them  likely  to  be  tyrants.  The  ground  on 
which  thev,  in  their  famous  resolution,  declared  the 
throne  vacant,  was  this,  "  that  James  had  broken 
the  fundamental  laws  of  the  kingdom. "  Every  man, 
therefore,  who  approves  of  the  Revolution  of  1688 
must  hold  that  the  breach  of  fundamental  laws  on 
the  part  of  the  sovereign  justifies  resistance.  The 
question,  then,  is  this  :  Had  Charles  the  First  broken 
the  fundamental  laws  of  England  ? 

No  person  can  answer  in  the  negative,  unless  he 
refuses  credit,  not  merely  to  all  the  accusations 
brought  against  Charles  by  his  opponents,  but  to 
the  narratives  of  the  warmest  Royalists,  and  to  the 
confessions  of  the  King  himself.  If  there  be  any 
truth  in  any  historian  of  any  party  who  has  related 
the  events  of  that  reign,  the  conduct  of  Charles, 
from  his  accession  to  the  meeting  of  the  Long  Par- 
liament, had  been  a  continued  course  of  oppression 
and  treachery.  Let  those  who  applaud  the  Revolu- 
tion, and  condemn  the  Rebellion,  mention  one  act 
of  James  the  Second  to  which  a  parallel  is  not  to 
be  found  in  the  history  of  his  father.     Let  them  lay 


MILTON.  39 

their  fingers  on  a  single  article  in  the  Declaration  of 
Right,  presented  by  the  two  Houses  to  William  and 
Mary,  which  Charles  is  not  acknowledged  to  have 
violated.  He  had,  according  to  the  testimony  of 
his  own  friends,  usurped  the  functions  of  the  legis- 
lature, raised  taxes  without  the  consent  of  parliament, 
and  quartered  troops  on  the  people  in  the  most  illegal 
and  vexatious  manner.  Not  a  single  session  of  parlia- 
ment had  passed  without  some  unconstitutional  attack 
on  the  freedom  of  debate ;  the  right  of  petition  was 
grossly  violated ;  arbitrary  judgments,  exorbitant 
fines,  and  unwarranted  imprisonments,  were  griev- 
ances of  daily  occurrence.  If  these  things  do  not 
justify  resistance,  the  Revolution  was  treason;  if 
they  do,  the  Great  Rebellion  was  laudable. 

But,  it  is  said,  why  not  adopt  milder  measures  ? 
Why,  after  the  King  had  consented  to  so  many  re- 
forms, and  renounced  so  many  oppressive  prerogatives, 
did  the  parliament  continue  to  rise  in  their  demands 
at  the  risk  of  provoking  a  civil  war  ?  The  ship- 
money  had  been  given  up.  The  Star  Chamber  had 
been  abolished.  Provision  had  been  made  for  the 
frequent  convocation  and  secure  deliberation  of  parlia- 
ments. Why  not  pursue  an  end  confessedly  good  by 
peaceable  and  regular  means  ?  We  recur  again  to  the 
analogy  of  the  Revolution.  Why  was  James  driven 
from  the  throne  ?  Why  was  he  not  retained  upon 
conditions  ?  He  too  had  offered  to  call  a  free  parlia- 
ment and  to  submit  to  its  decision  all  the  matters  in 
dispute.  Yet  we  are  in  the  habit  of  praising  our  fore- 
fathers, who  preferred  a  revolution,  a  disputed  succes- 
sion, a  dynasty  of  strangers,  twenty  years  of  foreign 
and  intestine  war,  a  standing  army,  and  a  national 
debt,  to  the  rule,  however  restricted,  of  a  tried  and 


40  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

proved  tyrant.  The  Long  Parliament  acted  on  the 
same  principle  and  is  entitled  to  the  same  praise. 
They  could  not  trust  the  King.  He  had  no  doubt 
passed  salutary  laws  ;  but  what  assurance  was  there 
that  he  would  not  break  them  ?  He  had  renounced 
oppressive  prerogatives  ;  but  where  was  the  security 
that  he  would  not  resume  them  ?  The  nation  had  to 
deal  with  a  man  whom  no  tie  could  bind,  a  man 
who  made  and  broke  promises  with  equal  facility,  a 
man  whose  honor  had  been  a  hundred  times  pawned, 
and  never  redeemed. 

Here,  indeed,  the  Long  Parliament  stands  on  still 
stronger  ground  than  the  Convention  of  1688.  No 
action  of  James  can  be  compared  to  the  conduct  of 
Charles  with  respect  to  the  Petition  of  Right.  The 
Lords  and  Commons  present  him  with  a  bill  in  which 
the  constitutional  limits  of  his  power  are  marked  out. 
He  hesitates  ;  he  evades  ;  at  last  he  bargains  to  give 
his  assent  for  five  subsidies.  The  bill  receives  his 
solemn  assent ;  the  subsidies  are  voted ;  but  no 
sooner  is  the  tyrant  relieved,  than  he  returns  at  once 
to  all  the  arbitrary  measures  which  he  had  bound 
himself  to  abandon,  and  violates  all  the  clauses  of  the 
very  Act  which  he  had  been  paid  to  pass. 

For  more  than  ten  years  the  people  had  seen  the 
rights  which  were  theirs  by  a  double  claim,  by 
immemorial  inheritance  and  by  recent  purchase,  in- 
fringed by  the  perfidious  king  who  had  recognized 
them.  At  length  circumstances  compelled  Charles 
to  summon  another  parliament:  another  chance  was 
given  to  our  fathers  :  were  they  to  throw  it  away  as 
they  had  thrown  away  the  former  ?  Were  they  again 
to  be  cozened  by  le  Roi  le  vent  f  Were  they  again  to 
advance  their  money  on  pledges  which  had  been  for- 


MILTON.  41 

feited  over  and  over  again  ?  Were  they  to  lay  a 
second  Petition  of  Right  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  to 
grant  another  lavish  aid  in  exchange  for  another 
unmeaning  ceremony,  and  then  to  take  their  depar- 
ture, till,  after  ten  years  more  of  fraud  and  oppression, 
their  prince  should  again  require  a  supply,  and  again 
repay  it  with  a  perjury  ?  They  were  compelled  to 
choose  whether  they  would  trust  a  tyrant  or  con- 
quer him.     We  think  that  they  chose  wisely  and  nobly,    up^' 

The  advocates  of  Charles,  like  the  advocates  of  other {] 
malefactors  against  whom  overwhelming  evidence  is  f    ^M 
produced,  generally  decline  all  controversy  about  the  -fc 

facts,  and  content  themselves  with  calling  testimony  rf 
to  character.  He  had  so  many  private  virtues  !  And 
had  James  the  Second  no  private  virtues  ?  Was 
Oliver  Cromwell,  his  bitterest  enemies  themselves 
being  judges,  destitute  of  private  virtues  ?  And  what,  \^,u/v 
after  all,  are  the  virtues  ascribed  to  Charles  ?  A 
religious  zeal,  not  more  sincere  than  that  of  his  son, 
and  fully  as  weak  and  narrow-minded,  and  a  few  of  y. 

the    ordinary    household    decencies    which    half  the     ^ 

tombstones  in  England  claim  for  those  who  lie  be- 
es <-xtL 

neath  them.  A  good  father  !  A  good  husband  ! 
Ample  apologies  indeed  for  fifteen  years  of  persecu- 
tion, tyranny,  and  falsehood! 

We  charge  him  with  having  broken  his  coronation  ^j^ 
oath ;  and  we  are  told  that  he  kept  his  marriage  vow  ! 
We  accuse  him  of  having  given  up  his  people  to  the 
merciless  inflictions  of  the  most  hot-headed  and  hard- 
hearted of  prelates ;  and  the  defence  is,  that  he  took 
his  little  son  on  his  knee  and  kissed  him  !  We  cen- 
sure him  for  having  violated  the  articles  of  the  Petition 
of  Right,  after  having,  for  good  and  valuable  considera- 
tion, promised  to  observe  them  ;  and  we  are  informed 


42  LITER  AR  Y  ESS  A  VS. 

that  he  was  accustomed  to  hear  prayers  at  six  o'clock ) 
in  the  morning  !  It  is  to  such  considerations  as\ 
these,  together  with  his  Vandyke  dress,  his  handsome! 
face,  and  his  peaked  beard,  that  he  owes,  we  verily/ 
believe,  most  of  his  popularity  with  the  present/ 
generation. 

For  ourselves,  we  own  that  we  do  not  understand 
the  common  phrase,  a  good  man,  but  a  bad  king. 
We  can  as  easily  conceive  a  good  man  and  an  unnat- 
ural father,  or  a  good  man  and  a  treacherous  friend. 
We  cannot,  in  estimating  the  character  of  an  individ- 
ual, leave  out  of  our  consideration  his  conduct  in  the 
most  important  of  all  human  relations  ;  and  if  in  that 
relation  we  find  him  to  have  been  selfish,  cruel,  and 
deceitful,  we  shall  take  the  liberty  to  call  him  a  bad 
man,  in  spite  of  all  his  temperance  at  table,  and  all  his 
regularity  at  chapel. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  adding  a  few  words  respect- 
ing a  topic  on  which  the  defenders  of  Charles  are  fond 
of  dwelling.  If,  they  say,  he  governed  his  people  ill, 
he  at  least  governed  them  after  the  example  of  his 
predecessors.  If  he  violated  their  privileges,  it  was 
because  those  privileges  had  not  been  accurately 
defined.  No  act  of  oppression  has  ever  been  imputed 
to  him  which  has  not  a  parallel  in  the  annals  of  the 
Tudors.  This  point  Hume  has  labored,  with  an  art 
which  is  as  discreditable  in  a  historical  work  as  it 
would  be  admirable  in  a  forensic  address.  The 
answer  is  short,  clear,  and  decisive.  Charles  had 
assented  to  the  PetitiorTof  Right.  He  had  renounced 
the  oppressive  powers  said  to  have  been  exercised  by 
his  predecessors,  and  he  had  renounced  them  for 
money.  He  was  not  entitled  to  set  up  his  antiquated 
claims  against  his  own  recent  release. 


MILTON.  43 

These  arguments  are  so  obvious,  that  it  may  seem 
superfluous  to  dwell  upon  them.  But  those  who  have 
observed  how  much  the  events  of  that  time  are  mis- 
represented and  misunderstood  will  not  blame  us  for 
stating  the  case  simply.  It  is  a  case  of  which  the 
simplest  statement  is  the  strongest. 

The  enemies  of  the  parliament,  indeed,  rarely 
choose  to  take  issue  on  the  great  points  of  the  ques- 
tion. They  content  themselves  with  exposing  some 
of  the  crimes  and  follies  to  which  public  commotions 
necessarily  give  birth.  They  bewail  the  unmerited 
fate  of  Strafford.  They  execrate  the  lawless  violence 
of  the  army.  They  laugh  at  the  Scriptural  names  of 
the  preachers.  Major-generals  fleecing  their  districts  ; 
soldiers  revelling  on  the  spoils  of  a  ruined  peasantry ; 
upstarts,  enriched  by  the  public  plunder  taking  pos-  & 
session  of  the  hospitable  firesides  and  hereditary  trees  (r**- 
of  the  old  gentry ;  boys  smashing  the  beautiful  win- 
dows of  cathedrals ;  Quakers  riding  naked  through 
the  market-place ;  Fifth-monarch  v  men  shouting  for 
King  Jesus  ;  agitators  lecturing  from  the  tops  of  tubs 
on  the  fate  of  Agag  ;  all  these,  they  tell  us,  were  the 
offspring  of  the  Great  Rebellion. 

Be  it  so.  We  are  not  careful  to  answer  in  this 
matter.  These  charges,  were  they  infinitely  more 
important,  would  not  alter  our  opinion  of  an  event 
which  alone  has  made  us  to  differ  from  the  slaves  who 
crouch  beneath  despotic  sceptres.  Many  evils,  no 
doubt,  were  produced  by  the  civil  war.  They  were 
the  price  of  our  liberty.  Has  the  acquisition  been 
worth  the  sacrifice  ?  It  is  the  nature  of  the  Devil  of  )¥JX 
tyranny  to  tear  and  rend  the  body  which  he  leaves. 
Are  the  miseries  of  continued  possession  less  horrible 
than  the  struggles  of  the  tremendous  exorcism  ? 


44  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

If  it  were  possible  that  a  people  brought  up  under 
an  intolerant  and  arbitrary  system  could  subvert  that 
system  without  acts  of  cruelty  and  folly,  half  the 
objections  to  despotic  power  would  be  removed.  We 
should,  in  that  case,  be  compelled  to  acknowledge 
that  it  at  least  produces  no  pernicious  effects  on  the 
intellectual  and  moral  character  of  a  nation.  We 
deplore  the  outrages  which    accompany  revolutions. 

eit  the  more  violent  the  outrages,  the  more  assured 
;  feel  that  a  revolution  was  necessary.  The  violence 
of  those  outrages  will  always  be  proportioned  to  the 
ferocity  and  ignorance  of  the  people  ;  and  the  ferocity 
c  and  ignorance  of  the  people  will  be  proportioned  to 
the  oppression  and  degradation  under  which  they  have 
been  accustomed  to  live.  Thus  it  was  in  our  civil 
war.  The  heads  of  the  church  and  state  reaped  only 
that  which  they  had  sown.  The  government  had 
prohibited  free  discussion  :  it  had  done  its  best  to 
keep  the  people  unacquainted  with  their  duties  and 
their  rights.  The  retribution  was  just  and  natural. 
If  our  rulers  suffered  from  popular  ignorance,  it  was 
because  they  had  themselves  taken  away  the  key  of 
knowledge.  If  they  were  assailed  with  blind  fury,  it 
was  because  they  had  exacted  an  equally  blind  sub- 
mission. 

It  is  the  character  of  such  revolutions  that  we  always 
see  the  worst  of  them  at  first.  Till  men  have  been 
some  time  free,  they  know  not  how  to  use  their  free- 
dom. The  natives  of  wine  countries  are  generally 
sober.  In  climates  where  wine  is  a  rarity  intemper- 
ance abounds.  A  newly  liberated  people  may  be 
compared  to  a  northern  army  encamped  on  the  Rhine 
or  the  Xeres.  It  is  said  that,  when  soldiers  in  such 
a  situation  first  find  themselves  able  to  indulge  with- 


MILTON.  45 

out  restraint  in  such  a  rare  and  expensive  luxury, 
nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  intoxication.  Soon,  how- 
ever, plenty  teaches  discretion  ;  and,  after  wine  has 
been  for  a  few  months  their  daily  fare,  they  become 
more  temperate  than  they  had  ever  been  in  their  own 
country.  In  the  same  manner,  the  final  and  perma- 
nent fruits  of  liberty  are  wisdom,  moderation,  and 
mercy.  Its  immediate  effects  are  often  atrocious 
crimes,  conflicting  errors,  skepticism  on  points  the 
most  clear,  dogmatism  on  points  the  most  mysterious. 
It  is  just  at  this  crisis  that  its  enemies  love  to  exhibit 
it.  They  pull  down  the  scaffolding  from  the  half- 
finished  edifice  :  they  point  to  the  flying  dust,  the 
falling  bricks,  the  comfortless  rooms,  the  frightful 
irregularity  of  the  whole  appearance  ;  and  then  ask  in 
scorn  where  the  promised  splendor  and  comfort  is  to 
be  found.  If  such  miserable  sophisms  were  to  prevail, 
there  would  never  be  a  good  house  or  a  good  govern- 
ment in  the  world. 

Ariosto  tells  a  pretty  story  of  a  fairy,  who,  by  some 
mysterious  law  of  her  nature,  was  condemned  to  appear 
at  certain  seasons  in  the  form  of  a  foul  and  poisonous 
snake.  Those  who  injured  her  during  the  period  of 
her  disguise  were  forever  excluded  from  participation 
in  the  blessings  which  she  bestowed.  But  to  those 
who,  in  spite  of  her  loathsome  aspect,  pitied  and  pro- 
tected her,  she  afterwards  revealed  herself  in  the 
beautiful  and  celestial  form  which  was  natural  to  her, 
accompanied  their  steps,  granted  all  their  wishes,  filled 
their  houses  with  wealth,  made  them  happy  in  love 
and  victorious  in  war.  Such  a  spirit  is  Liberty.  At 
times  she  takes  the  form  of  a  hateful  reptile.  She 
grovels,  she  hisses,  she  stings.  But  woe  to  those 
who  in  disgust   shall   venture   to   crush   her !     And 


46  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

happy  are  those  who,  having  dared  to  receive  her  in 
hej^degraded_and  frightful  shape,  shall  at  length  be  re- 
warded by  her  in  the  time  of  her  beauty  and  her  glory! 

There  is  only  one  cure  for  the  evils  which  newly 
L  [acquired  freedom  produces ;  and  that  cure  is  freedom. 
When  a  prisoner  first  leaves  his  cell  he  cannot  bear 
the  light  of  day :  he  is  unable  to  discriminate  colors, 
or  recognize  faces.  But  the  remedy  is  not  to  remand 
him  into  his  dungeon,  but  to  accustom  him  to  the 
rays  of  the  sun.  The  blaze  of  truth  and  liberty  may 
at  first  dazzle  and^bewilder  nations  which  have  become 
half  blind  in  the  house  of  bondage.  But  let  them  gaze 
on,  and  they  will  soon  be  able  to  bear  it.  In  a  few 
years  men  learn  to  reason.  The  extreme  violence 
of  opinions  subsides.  Hostile  theories  correct  each 
other.  The  scattered  elements  of  truth  cease  to  con- 
tend, and  begin  to  coalesce.  And  at  length  a  system 
of  justice  and  order  is  educed  out  of  the  chaos. 

Many  politicians  of  our  time  are  in  the  habit  of 
laying  it  down  as  a  self-evident  proposition,  that  no 
people  ought  to  be  free  till  they  are  fit  to  use  their 
freedom.  The  maxim  is  worthy  of  the  fool  in  the 
old  story  who  resolved  not  to  go  into  the  water  till 
he  had  learnt  to  swim.  If  men  are  to  wait  for  liberty 
till  they  become  wise  and  good  in  slavery,  they  may 
indeed  wait  forever. 
i>uX^r*  Therefore  it  is  that  wp  decidedly  approve  of  the  con- 
duct of  Milton  and  the  other  wise  and  good  men  who, 
in  spite  of  much  that  was  ridiculous  and  hateful  in 
the  conduct  of  their  associates,  stood  firmly  by  the 
cause  of  Public  Liberty.  We  are  not  aware  that  the 
poet  has  been  charged  with  personal  participation  in 
any  of  the  blameable  excesses  of  that  time.  The 
favorite  topic  of  his  enemies  is  the  line  of  conduct 


MILTON.  47 

which  he  pursued  with  regard  to  the  execution  of  the 
King.  Of  that  celebrated  proceeding  we  by  no  means 
approve.  Still  we  must  say,  in  justice  to  the  many 
eminent  persons  who  concurred  in  it,  and  in  justice 
more  particularly  to  the  eminent  person  who  defended 
it,  that  nothing  can  be  more  absurd  than  the  imputa- 
tions which,  for  the  last  hundred  and  sixty  years,  it 
has  been  the  fashion  to  cast  upon  the  Regicides. 
We  have,  throughout,  abstained  from  appealing  to 
first  principles.  We  will  not  appeal  to  them  now. 
We  recur  again  to  the  parallel  case  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. What  essential  distinction  can  be  drawn  be- 
tween the  execution  of  the  father  and  the  deposition 
of  the  son  ?  What  constitutional  maxim  is  there 
which  applies  to  the  former  and  not  to  the  latter  ? 
The  King  can  do^no^wrong.  If  so,  James  was  as 
innocent  alTCharles  could  have  been.  The  minister 
only  ought  to  be  responsible  for  the  acts  of  the 
Sovereign.  If  so,  why  not  impeach  Jefferies  and 
retain  James  ?  The  person  of  a  King  is  sacred. 
Was  the  person  of  James  considered  sacred  at  the 
Boyne  ?  To  discharge  cannon  against  an  army  in  \ 
which  a  King  is  known  to  be  posted  is  to  approach  J 
pretty  near  to  regicide.  Charles,  too,  it  should  always 
be  remembered,  was  put  to  death  by  men  who  had 
been  exasperated  by  the  hostilities  of  several  years, 
and  who  had  never  been  bound  to  him  by  any  other 
tie  than  that  which  was  common  to  them  with  all 
their  fellow-citizens.  Those  who  drove  James  from 
his  throne,  who  seduced  his  army,  who  alienated  his 
friends,  who  first  imprisoned  him  in  his  palace,  and  3  -A 
then  turned  him  out  of  it,  who  broke  in  upon  his 
very  slumbers  by  imperious  messages,  who  pursued 
him  with  fire  and  sword  from  one  part  of  the  empire 


48  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

to  another,  who  hanged,  drew,  and  quartered  his 
adherents,  and  attainted  his  innocent  heir,  \vere_his 
nephew  and  his  two  daughters.  When  we  reflect  on 
all  these  things,  we  are  at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  the 
same  persons  who,  on  the  fifth  of  November,  thank 
God  for  wonderfully  conducting  his  servant  William, 
and  for  making  all  opposition  fall  before  him  until  he 
became  our  King  and  Governor,  can,  on  the  thirtieth 
Qfjanuary,  contrive  to  be  afraid  that  the  blood  of  the 
RoyaTMartyr  may  be  visited  on  themselves  and  their 
children. 

We  disapprove,  we  repeat,  of  the  execution  of 
Charles ;  not  because  the  constitution  exempts  the 
King  from  responsibility,  for  we  know  that  all  such 
maxims,  however  excellent,  have  their  exceptions  ;  nor 
because  we  feel  any  peculiar  interest  in  his  character, 
for  we  think  that  his  sentence  describes  him  with  per- 
fect justice  as  "a  tyrant,  a  traitor,  a  murderer,  and_a_ 
public  enemy ; "  but  ^Because  we  are  convinced  that 
the  measure  was  most  injurious  to  the  cause  of  free- 
dom. He  whom  it  removed  was  a  captive  and  a 
hostage :  his  heir,  to  whom  the  allegiance  of  every 
Royalist  was  instantly  transferred,  was  at  large.  The 
Presbyterians  could  never  have  been  perfectly  recon- 
ciled to  the  father :  they  had  no  such  rooted  enmity  to 
the  son.  The  great  body  of  the  people,  also,  contem- 
plated that  proceeding  with  feelings  which,  however 
unreasonable,  no  government  could  safely  venture  to 
outrage. 

But  though  we  think  the  conduct  of  the  Regicides 
blameable,  that  of  Milton  appears  to  us  in  a  very  dif- 
ferent light.     The  deed  was  done.     It  could  not  be  S  s  ^ 
undone.     The  evil  was  incurred;  and  the  object  was 
to  render  it  as  small  as  possible.      We  censure  the 


MILTON.  49 

chiefs  of  the  army  for  not  yielding  to  the  popular 
opinion ;  but  we  cannot  censure  Milton  for  wishing  to 
change  that  opinion.  The  very  feeling  which  would 
have  restrained  us  from  committing  the  act  would 
have  led  us,  after  it  had  been  committed,  to  defend  it 
against  the  ravings  of  servility  and  superstition.  For 
the  sake  of  public  liberty,  we  wish  that  the  thing  had 
not  been  done,  while  the  people  disapproved  of  it. 
But,  for  the  sake  of  public  liberty,  we  should  also  have 
wished  the  people  to  approve  of  it  when  it  was  done. 
If  anything  more  were  wanting  to  the  justification  of 
Milton,  the  book  of  Salmasius  would  furnish  it.  That 
miserable  performance  is  now  with  justice  considered 
only  as  a  beacon  to  word-catchers,  who  wish  to  become 
statesmen.  The  celebrity  of  the  man  who  refuted  it, 
the  "^neae  magni  dextra.,1'  gives  it  all  its  fame  with 
the  present  generation.  In  that  age  the  state  of 
things  was  different.  It  was  not  then  fully  under- 
stood how  vast  an  interval  separates  the  mere  classi- 
cal scholar  from  the  political  philosopher.  Nor  can 
it  be  doubted  that  a  treatise  which,  bearing  the  name 
of  so  eminent  a  critic,  attacked  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  all  free  governments,  must,  if  suffered  to 
remain  unanswered,  have  produced  a  most  pernicious 
effect  on  the  public  mind. 

We  wish  to  add  a  few  words  relative  to  another  sub- 
ject, on  which  the  enemies  of  Milton  delight  to  dwell, 
his  conduct  during  the  administration  of  the  Protector. 
That  an  enthusiastic  votary  of  liberty  should  accept 
office  under  a  military  usurper  seems,  no  doubt,  at 
first  sight,  extraordinary.  But  all  the  circumstances 
in  which  the  country  was  then  placed  were  extraordi- 
nary. The j^mhition  of  Oliver  was  of  no  vulvar  kind. 
He  never  seems  to  have  coveted  despotic  power.     He 


50  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

at  first  fought  sincerely  and  manfully  for  the  parlia- 
ment, and  never  deserted  it,  till  it  had  deserted  its 
duty.  If  he  dissolved  it  by  force,  it  was  not  till  he 
found  that  the  few  members  who  remained  after  so 
many  deaths,  secessions,  and  expulsions,  were  desirous 
to  appropriate  to  themselves  a  power  which  they  held 
only  in  trust,  and  to  inflict  upon  England  the  curse  of 
a  Venetian  oligarchy.  But  even  when  thus  placed  by 
violence  at  the  head  of  affairs,  he  did  not  assume 
unlimited  power.  He  gave  the  country  a  constitution 
far  more  perfect  than  any  which  had  at  that  time  been 
known  in  the  world.  He  reformed  the  representative 
system  in  a  manner  which  has  extorted  praise  even 
from  Lord  Clarendon.  For  himself  he  demanded 
indeed  the  first  place  in  the  commonwealth  ;  but  with 
powers  scarcely  so  great  as  those  of  a  Dutch  stadt- 
holder  or  an  American  president.  He  gave  the  par- 
liament a  voice  in  the  appointment  of  ministers,  and 
left  to  it  the  whole  legislative  authority,  not  even 
reserving  to  himself  a  veto  on  its  enactments  ;  and  he 
did  not  require  that  the  chief  magistracy  should  be 
hereditary  in  his  family.  Thus  far,  we  think,  if  the 
circumstances  of  the  time  and  the  opportunities  which 
he  had  of  aggrandizing  himself  be  fairly  considered, 
he  will  not  lose  by  comparison  with  Washington  or 
Boliy_a.r.  Had  his  moderation  been  met  with  corre- 
sponding moderation,  there  is  no  reason  to  think  that 
he  would  have  overstepped  the  line  which  he  had  traced 
for  himself.  But  when  he  found  that  his  parliaments 
questioned  the  authority  under  which  they  met,  and 
that  he  was  in  danger  of  being  deprived  of  the 
restricted  power  which  was  absolutely  necessary  to 
his  personal  safety,  then,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  he 
adopted  a  more  arbitrary  policy. 


MILTON.  51 

Yet,  though  we  believe  that  the  intentions  of  Crom- 
well were  at  first  honest,  though  we  believe  that  he 
was  driven  from  the  noble  course  which  he  had 
marked  out  for  himself  by  the  almost  irresistible  force 
of  circumstances,  though  we  admire,  in  common  with 
all  men  of  all  parties,  the  ability  and  energy  of  his 
splendid  administration,  we  are  not  pleading  for  arbi- 
trary and  lawless  power,  even  in  his  hands.  We  know 
that  a  good  constitution  is  infinitely  better  than  the 
best  despot.  But  we  suspect,  that  at  the  time  of 
which  we  speak  the  violence  of  religious  and  political 
enmities  rendered  a  stable  and  happy  settlement  next 
to  impossible.  The  choice  lay,  not  between  Cromwell 
and  liberty,  but  between  Cromwell  and  the  Stuarts. 
That  Milton  chose  well,  no  man  can  doubt  who  fairly 
compares  the  events  of  the  protectorate  with  those  of 
the  thirty  years  which  succeeded  it,  the^darkest  and 
most  disgracefuMn  the  English  annals.  Cromwell 
was  evidently  laying,  though  in  an  irregular  manner, 
the  foundations  of  an  admirable  system.  Never  be- 
fore had  religious  liberty  and  the  freedom  of  discus- 
sion been  enjoyed  in  a  greater  degree.  Never  had 
the  national  honor  been  better  upheld  abroad,  or  the 
seat  of  justice  better  filled  at  home.  And  it  was  rarely 
that  any  opposition  which  stopped  short  of  open  rebel- 
lion provoked  the  resentment  of  the  liberal jrnd  mag- 
nanimous usurper.  The  institutions  which  he  had 
established,  as  set  down  in  the  Instrument  of  Govern- 
ment, and  the  Humble  Petition  and  Advice,  were 
excellent.  His  practice,  it  is  true,  too  often  departed 
from  the  theory  of  these  institutions.  But,  had  he 
lived  a  few  years  longer,  it  is  probable  that  his  insti- 
tutions would  have  survived  him,  and  that  his  arbi- 
trary practice  would  have  died  with  him.     His  power 


52  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

had  not  been  consecrated  by  ancient  prejudices.  It 
was  upheld  only  by  his  great  personal  qualities.  Little, 
therefore,  was  to  be  dreaded  from  a  second  protector, 
unless  he  wras  also  a  second  Oliver  Cromwell.  The 
events  which  followed  his  decease  are  the  most  com- 
plete vindication  of  those  who  exerted  themselves  to 
uphold  his  authority.  His  death  dissolved  the  whole 
frame  of  society.  The  army  rose  against  the  parlia- 
ment, the  different  corps  of  the  army  against  each  other. 
Sect  raved  against  sect.  Party  plotted  against  party. 
The  Presbyterians,  in  their  eagerness  to  be  revenged 
on  the  Independents,  sacrificed  their  own  liberty,  and 
deserted  all  their  old  principles.  Without  casting 
one  glance  on  the  past,  or  requiring  one  stipulation 
for  the  future,  they  threw  down  their  freedom  at  the 
eet  of  the  most  frivolous  and  heartless  of  tyrants. 

Then  came  those  days,  neverjobe  recalled  without 
a  blush,  the  days  of  servitude  without  loyalty  and  sen- 
suality without  love,  of  dwarfish  talents  and  gigantic 
vices,  the  paradise  of  cold  hearts  and  narrow  minds, 
the  golden  age  of  the  coward,  the  bigot,  and  the  slave. 
The  King  cringed  to  his  rival  that  he  might  trample 
on  his  people,  sank  into  a  viceroy  of  France,  and 
pocketed,  with  complacent  infamy,  her  degrading 
insults,  and  her  more  degrading  gold.  The  caresses 
of  harlots,  and  the  jests  of  buffoons,  regulated  the 
policy  of  the  state.  The  government  had  just  ability 
enough  to  deceive,  and  just  religion  enough  to  perse- 
cute. The  principles  of  liberty  were  the  scoff  of 
every  grinning  courtier,  and  the  Anathema  Marana- 
tha  of  every  fawning  dean.  In  every  high  place, 
worship  was  paid  to  Charles  and  James.  Belial  and 
Moloch  ;  and  England  propitiated  those  obscene  and 
cruel  idols  with  the  blood  of  her  best  and  bravest 


MILTON.  53 

children.      Crime  succeeded  to  crime,  and   disgrace; 
to  disgrace,  till_the  race  accursed  of  God  and  man! 
was  a  second  time  driven  forth,  to  wander  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  to  be  a  byword  and  a  shaking 
of  the  head  to  the  nations.  ■ 

Most  of  the  remarks  which  we  have  hitherto  made 
on  the  public  character  of  Milton,  apply  to  him  only  i 

as  one  of  a  large  body.  We  shall  proceed  to  notice, 
some  of  the  peculiarities  which  distinguished  him  from 
his  contemporaries.  And,  for  that  purpose,  jt  is  negj 
essary  to  take  a  short  survey  of  the  parties  into  which 
the  political  world  was  at  that  time  divided.  We  must 
premise,  that  our  observations  are  intended  to  apply 
only  to  those  who  adhered,  from  a  sincere  preference, 
to  one  or  to  the  other  side.  In  days  of  public  com- 
motion, every  faction,  like  an  Oriental  army,  is  attended 
by  a  crowd  of  camp-followers,  an  useless  and  heartless  *>-  ' 
rabble,  who  prowl  round  its  line  of  march  in  the  hope 
of  picking  up  something  under  its  protection,  but 
desert  it  in  the  day  of  battle,  and  often  join  to  exter- 
minate it  after  defeat.  England,  at  the  time  of  whip-h 
we  are  treating,  abounded  with  fickle  and  selfish  poll 
ticians,  who  transferred  their  support  to  every  govern 
ment  as  it  rose,  who  kissed  the  hand  of  the  King  in 
1640,  and  spat  in  his  face  in  1649,  who  shouted  with 
equal  glee  when  Cromwell  was  inaugurated  in  West- 
minster Hall,  and  when  he  was  dug  up  to  be  hanged 
at  Tyburn,  who  dined  on  calves1  heao^oxstuckup  oak- 
branches,  as  circumstances  altered,  without  the  slight- 
est shame  or  repugnance.  These  we  leave  out  of 
the  account.  We  take  our  estimate  of  parties  from 
those  who  really  deserve  to  be  called  partisans. 

We  would   speak  first  of  the    Puritans,  the  most 
remarkable  body  of  men,  perhaps,  which  the  world 


54  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

has  ever  produced.  The  odious  and  ridiculous  parts 
of  their  character  lie  on  the  surface.  He  that  runs 
may  read  them  ;  nor  have  there  been  wanting  atten- 
tive and  malicious  observers  to  point  them  out.  For 
many  years  after  the  Restoration,  they  were  the  theme 
of  unmeasured  invective  and  derision.  They  were 
exposed  to  the  utmost  licentiousness  of  the  press  and 
of  the  stage,  at  the  time  when  the  press  and  the  stage 
were  most  licentious.  They  were  not  men  of  letters  ; 
they  were,  as  a  body,  unpopular ;  they  could  not 
defend  themselves  ;  and  the  public  would  not  take 
them  under  its  protection.  They  were  therefore  aban- 
doned, without  reserve,  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the 
satirists  and  dramatists.  The  ostentatious  simplicity 
of  their  dress,  their  sour  aspect,  their  nasal  twang, 
their  stiff  posture,  their  long  graces,  their  Hebrew 
names,  the  Scriptural  phrases  which  they  introduced 
on  every  occasion,  their  contempt  of  human  learning, 
their  detestation  of  polite  amusements,  were  indeed 
fair  game  for  the  laughers.  But  it  is  not  from  the 
laughers  alone  that  the  philosophy  of  history  is  to  be 
learnt.  And  he  who  approaches  this  subject  should 
carefully  guard  against  the  influence  of  that  potent 
ridicule  which  has  already  misled  so  many  excellent 
writers. 

"  Ecco  il  fonte  del  riso,  ed  ecco  il  rio 
Che  mortali  perigli  in  se  contiene  : 
Hor  qui  tener  a  fren  nostro  desio, 
Ed  esser  cauti  molto  a  noi  conviene." 

Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance,  who 
directed  their  measures  through  a  long  series  of  event- 
ful years,  who  formed,  out  of  the  most  unpromising 
materials,  the  finest  army  that  Europe  had  ever  seen, 


MILTON.  55 

who  trampled  down  King,  Church,  and  Aristocracy, 
who.  in  the  short  intervals  of  domestic  sedition  and 
rebellion,  made  the  name  of  England  terrible  to  every 
nation  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  were  no  vulgar  fa- 
natics. Most  of  their  absurdities  were  mere  external 
badges,  like  the  signs  of  freemasonry,  or  the  dresses 
of  friars.  We  regret  that  these  badges  were  not  more 
attractive.  We  regret  that  a  body  to  whose  courage 
and  talents  mankind  has  owed  inestimable  obligations 
had  not  the  lofty  elegance  which  distinguished  some 
of  the  adherents  of  Charles  the  First,  or  the  easy 
good-breeding  for  which  the  court  of  Charles  the 
Second  was  celebrated.  But,  if  we  must  make  our 
choice,  we  shall,  like  Bassanio  in  the  play,  turn  from 
the  specious  caskets  which  contain  only  the  Death's 
head  and  the  Fool's  head,  and  fix  on  the  plain  leaden 
chest  which  conceals  the  treasure. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived^ 
a  peculiar  character  from  the  daily  contemplation  of 
superior  beings  and  eternal  interests.  Not  content 
with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms,  an  overruling 
Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every  event  to 
the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power  nothing 
was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too 
minute.  To  know  him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him, 
was  with  them  the  great  end  of  existence.  They 
rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage 
which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of 
the  soul.  Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses 
of  the  Deity  through  an  obscuring  veil,  they  aspired 
to  gaze  full  on  his  intolerable  brightness,  and  to  com- 
mune with  him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated  their 
contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The  difference 
between  the  greatest  and   the  meanest  of  mankind 


56    jP^y/    '  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 


K 


seemed  to  vanish,  when  compared  with  the  boundless 
interval  which  separated  the  whole  race  from  him  on 
whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They 
recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor ;  and, 
confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  all  the  accom- 
plishments and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world.  If  they 
were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philosophers 
and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of 
God.  If  their  names  were  not  found  in  the  registers 
of  heralds,  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life. 
If  their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid 
train  of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had 
charge  over  them.  Their  palaces  were  houses  not 
made  with  hands ;  their  diadems  crowns  of  glory 
which  should  never  fade  away.  On  the  rich  and  the 
eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they  looked  down 
with  contempt :  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich 
in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more 
sublime  language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier 
creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of  a  mightier 
hand.  The  very  meanest  of  them  was  a  being  to 
whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance  be- 
longed, on  whose  slightest  action  the  spirits  of  light 
and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest,  who  had 
been  destined,  before  heaven  and  earth  were  created, 
to  enjoy  a  felicity  which  should  continue  when  heaven 
and  earth  should  have  passed  away.  Events  which 
short-sighted  politicians  ascribe  to  earthly  causes, 
had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake 
empires  had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed.  For 
his  sake  the  Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the 
pen  of  the  Evangelist,  and  the  harp  of  the  prophet. 
He  had  been  wrested  by  no  common  deliverer  from 
the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.     He  had  been  ransomed 


ilXvftf^ 


MILTON.  57 

by  the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no 
earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had 
been  darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the 
dead  had  risen,  that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the 
sufferings  of  her  expiring  God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different 
men,  the  one  all  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude, 
passion,  the  other  proud,  calm,  inflexible,  sagacious. 
He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker : 
but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his 
devotional  retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions, 
and  groans,  and  tears.  He  was  half-maddened  by 
glorious  or  terrible  illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres  of 
angels  or  the  tempting  whispers  of  fiends.  He 
caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke 
screaming  from  dreams  of  everlasting  fire..  Like 
Vane,  he  thought  himself  intrusted  with  the  sceptre 
of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face 
from  him.  But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council, 
or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous  work- 
ings of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind 
them.  People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but 
their  uncouth  visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them 
but  their  groans  and  their  whining  hymns,  might 
laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  little  reason  to  laugh 
who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the 
field  of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and 
military  affairs  a  coolness  of  judgment  and  an  immu- 
tability of  purpose  which  some  writers  have  thought 
inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but  which  were 
in  fact  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of 
their  feelings  on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on 
every  other.     One  overpowering  sentiment  had  sub- 


* 


58  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

jected  to  itself  pity  and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear. 
Death  had  lost  its  terrors  and  pleasure  its  charms. 
They  had  their  smiles  and  their  tears,  their  raptures 
and  their  sorrows,  but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world. 
Enthusiasm  had  made  them  Stoics,  had  cleared  their 
minds  from  every  vulgar  passion  and  prejudice,  and 
raised  them  above  the  influence  of  danger  and  of 
corruption.  It  sometimes  might  lead  them  to  pursue 
unwise  ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise  means. 
They  went  through  the  world,  like  Sir  Artegal's  iron 
man  Talus  with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling 
down  oppressors,  mingling  with  human  beings,  but 
having  neither  part  or  lot  in  human  infirmities,  in- 
sensible to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain,  not  to 
be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood  by 
any  barrier. 

Such  we  believe  to  have  been  the  character  of  the 
Puritans.  We  perceive  the  absurdity  of  their  man- 
ners. We  dislike  the  sullen  gloom  of  their  domestic 
habits.  We  acknowledge  that  the  tone  of  their  minds 
was  often  injured  by  straining  after  things  too  high 
for  mortal  reach  :  and  we  know  that,  in  spite  of  their 
hatred  of  Popery,  they  too  often  fell  into  the  worst 
vices  of  that  bad  system,  intolerance  and  extravagant 
austerity,  that  they  had  their  anchorites  and  their 
crusades,  their  Dunstans  and  their  De  Monforts,  their 
Dominies  and  their  Escobars.  Yet,  when  all  circum- 
stances are  taken  into  consideration,  we  do  not  hesi- 
tate to  pronounce  them  a  brave,  a  wise,  an  honest, 
and  an  useful  body. 

The  Puritans  espoused  the  cause  of  civil  liberty 
mainly  because  it  was  the  cause  of  religion.  There 
was  another  party,  by  no  means  numerous,  but  dis- 
tinguished by  learning  and  ability,  which  acted  with 


MILTON.  59 

them  on  very  different  principles.  We  speak  of  those 
whom  Cromwell  was  accustomed  to  call  the  Heathens, 
men  who  were,  in  the  phraseology  of  that  time,  doubt- 
ing Thomases  or  careless  Gallios  with  regard  to  reli- 
gious subjects,  but  passionate  worshippers  of  freedom. 
Heated  by  the  study  of  ancient  literature,  they  set  up 
their  country  as  their  idol,  and  proposed  to  them- 
selves the  heroes  of  Plutarch  as  their  examples. 
They  seem  to  have  borne  some  resemblance  to  the 
Brissotines  of  the  French  Revolution.  But  it  is  not 
very  easy  to  draw  the  line  of  distinction  between 
them  and  their  devout  associates,  whose  tone  and 
manner  they  sometimes  found  it  convenient  to  affect, 
and  sometimes,  it  is  probable,  imperceptibly  adopted. 
We  now  come  to  the  Royalists.  We  shall  attempt 
to  speak  of  them,  as  we  have  spoken  of  their  antag- 
onists, with  perfect  candor.  We  shall  not  charge 
upon  a  whole  party  the  profligacy  and  baseness  of 
the  horse-boys,  gamblers,  and  bravoes,  whom  the 
hope  of  license  and  plunder  attracted  from  all  the 
dens  of  Whitefriars  to  the  standard  of  Charles,  and 
who  disgraced  their  associates  by  excesses  which, 
under  the  stricter  discipline  of  the  parliamentary 
armies,  were  never  tolerated.  We  will  select  a  more 
favorable  specimen.  Thinking  as  we  do  that  the 
cause  of  the  King  was  the  cause  of  bigotry  and  tyr- 
anny, we  yet  cannot  refrain  from  looking  with  com- 
placency on  the  character  of  the  honest  old  Cavaliers. 
We  feel  a  national  pride  in  comparing  them  with  the 
instruments  which  the  despots  of  other  countries  are 
compelled  to  employ,  with  the  mutes  who  throng 
their  antechambers,  and  the  janissaries  who  mount 
guard  at  their  gates.  Our  royalist  countrymen  were 
not   heartless,   dangling   courtiers,  bowing   at   every 


60  LITERARY  ESSAYS, 

step,  and  simpering  at  every  word.  They  were  not 
mere  machines  for  destruction,  dressed  up  in  uniforms, 
caned  into  skill,  intoxicated  into  valor,  defending 
without  love,  destroying  without  hatred.  There  was 
a  freedom  in  their  subserviency,  a  nobleness  in  their 
very  degradation.  The  sentiment  of  individual  inde- 
pendence was  strong  within  them.  They  were  indeed 
misled,  but  by  no  base  or  selfish  motive.  Compas- 
sion and  romantic  honor,  the  prejudices  of  childhood, 
and  the  venerable  names  of  history,  threw  over  them 
a  spell  potent  as  that  of  Duessa ;  and,  like  the  Red- 
Cross  Knight,  they  thought  that  they  were  doing 
battle  for  an  injured  beauty,  while  they  defended  a 
false  and  loathsome  sorceress.  In  truth  they  scarcely 
entered  at  all  into  the  merits  of  the  political  question. 
It  was  not  for  a  treacherous  king  or  an  intolerant 
church  that  they  fought,  but  for  the  old  banner  which 
had  waved  in  so  many  battles  over  the  heads  of  their 
fathers,  and  for  the  altars  at  which  they  had  received 
the  hands  of  their  brides.  Though  nothing  could  be 
more  erroneous  than  their  political  opinions,  they 
possessed,  in  a  far  greater  degree  than  their  adversa- 
ries, those  qualities  which  are  the  grace  of  private 
life.  With  many  of  the  vices  of  the  Round  Table, 
they  had  also  many  of  its  virtues,  courtesy,  gen- 
erosity, veracity,  tenderness,  and  respect  for  women. 
They  had  far  more  both  of  profound  and  of  polit£ 
learning  than  the  Puritans.  Their  manners  were 
more  engaging,  their  tempers  more  amiable,  their 
tastes  more  elegant,  and  their  households  more 
cheerful. 

Milton  did  not  strictly  belong  to  any  of  the  classes 
which  we  have  described.  He  was  not  a  Puritan. 
He  was  not  a  freethinker.     He  was  not  a  Royalist. 


MILTON.  6 1 

In  his  character  the  noblest  qualities  of  every  party 
were  combined  in  harmonious  union.  From  the  par- 
liament and  from  the  court,  from  the  conventicle  and 
from  the  Gothic  cloister,  from  the  gloomy  and  sepul- 
chral circles  of  the  Roundheads,  and  from  the  Christ- 
mas revel  of  the  hospitable  Cavalier,  his  nature  selected 
and  drew  to  itself  whatever  was  great  and  good,  while 
it  rejected  all  the  base  and  pernicious  ingredients  by 
which  those  finer  elements  were  denied.  Like  the 
Puritans,  he  lived 

"  As  ever  in  his  great  task-master's  eye." 

Like  them,  he  kept  his  mind  continually  fixed  on  an 
Almighty  Judge  and  an  eternal  reward.  And  hence 
he  acquired  their  contempt  of  external  circumstances, 
their  fortitude,  their  tranquillity,  their  inflexible  reso- 
lution. But  not  the  coolest  skeptic  or  the  most  pro- 
fane scoffer  was  more  perfectly  free  from  the  contagion 
of  their  frantic  delusions,  their  savage  manners,  their 
ludicrous  jargon,  their  scorn  of  science,  and  their 
aversion  to  pleasure.  Hating  tyranny  with  a  perfect 
hatred,  he  had  nevertheless  all  the  estimable  and  orna- 
mental qualities  which  were  almost  entirely  monopo- 
lized by  the  party  of  the  tyrant.  There  was  none  who 
had  a  stronger  sense  of  the  value  of  literature,  a  finer 
relish  for  every  elegant  amusement,  or  a  more  chival- 
rous delicacy  of  honor  and  love.  Though  his  opinions 
were  democratic,  his  tastes  and  his  associations  were 
such  as  harmonize  best  with  monarchy  and  aristoc- 
racy. He  was  under  the  influence  of  all  the  feelings 
by  which  the  gallant  Cavaliers  were  misled.  But  of 
those  feelings  he  was  the  master  and  not  the  slave. 
Like  the  hero  of  Homer,  he  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures 
of  fascination  ;  but  was  not  fascinated.    He  listened  to 


62  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

the  song  of  the  Syrens ;  yet  he  glided  by  without 
being  seduced  to  their  fatal  shore.  He  tasted  the  cup 
of  Circe  ;  but  he  bore  about  him  a  sure  antidote  against 
the  effects  of  its  bewitching  sweetness.  The  allusions 
which  captivated  his  imagination  never  impaired  his 
reasoning  powers.  The  statesman  was  proof  against 
the  splendor,  the  solemnity,  and  the  romance  which 
enchanted  the  poet.  Any  person  who  will  contrast  the 
sentiments  expressed  in  his  treatises  on  Prelacy  with 
the  exquisite  lines  on  ecclesiastical  architecture  and 
music  in  the  Penseroso,  which  was  published  about  the 
same  time,  will  understand  our  meaning.  This  is  an  in- 
consistency which,  more  than  anything  else,  raises  his 
character  in  our  estimation,  because  it  shows  how  many 
private  tastes  and  feelings  he  sacrificed,  in  order  to 
do  what  he  considered  his  duty  to  mankind.  It  is 
the  very  struggle  of  the  noble  Othello.  His  heart  re- 
lents :  but  his  hand  is  firm.  He  does  nought  in  hate, 
but  all  in  honor.  He  kisses  the  beautiful  deceiver 
before  he  destroys  her. 

That  from  which  the  public  character  of  Milton 
derives  its  great  and  peculiar  splendor,  still  remains 
to  be  mentioned.  If  he  exerted  himself  to  overthrow 
a  forsworn  king  and  a  persecuting  hierarchy,  he  exerted 
himself  in  conjunction  with  others.  But  the  glory  of 
the  battle  which  he  fought  for  the  species  of  freedom 
which  is  the  most  valuable,  and  which  was  then  the 
least  understood,  the  freedom  of  the  human  mind, 
is  all  his  own.  Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands 
among  his  contemporaries  raised  their  voices  against 
Ship-money  and  the  Star-chamber.  But  there  were 
few  indeed  who  discerned  the  more  fearful  evils  of 
moral  and  intellectual  slavery,  and  the  benefits  which 
would  result  from  the  liberty  of  the  press  and    the 


MILTON.  63 

unfettered  exercise  of  private  judgment.  These  were 
the  objects  which  Milton  justly  conceived  to  be  the 
most  important.  He  was  desirous  that  the  people 
should  think  for  themselves  as  well  as  tax  themselves, 
and  should  be  emancipated  from  the  dominion  of  prej- 
udice as  well  as  from  that  of  Charles.  He  knew  that 
those  who,  with  the  best  intentions,  overlooked  these 
schemes  of  reform,  and  contented  themselves  with 
pulling  down  the  King  and  imprisoning  the  malig- 
nants,  acted  like  the  heedless  brothers  in  his  own 
poem,  who,  in  their  eagerness  to  disperse  the  train 
of  the  sorcerer,  neglected  the  means  of  liberating  the 
captive.  They  thought  only  of  conquering  when  they 
should  have  thought  of  disenchanting. 

"  Oh,  he  mistook !     Ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand 
And  bound  him  fast.     Without  the  rod  reversed, 
And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 
We  cannot  free  the  lady  that  sits  here 
Bound  in  strong  fetters  fixed  and  motionless." 

To  reverse  the  rod,  to  spell  the  charm  backward,  to 
break  the  ties  which  bound  a  stupefied  people  to  the 
seat  of  enchantment,  was  the  noble  aim  of  Milton.  To 
this  all  his  public  conduct  was  directed.  For  this  he 
joined  the  Presbyterians ;  for  this  he  forsook  them. 
He  fought  their  perilous  battle ;  but  he  turned  away 
with  disdain  from  their  insolent  triumph.  He  saw 
that  they,  like  those  whom  they  had  vanquished, 
were  hostile  to  the  liberty  of  thought.  He  therefore 
joined  the  Independents,  and  called  upon  Cromwell  to 
break  the  secular  chain,  and  to  save  free  conscience 
from  the  paw  of  the  Presbyterian  wolf.  With  a  view 
to  the  same  great  object,  he  attacked  the  licensing 
system,  in  that  sublime  treatise  which  every  states- 


64  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

man  Lhould  wear  as  a  sign  upon  his  hand  and  as 
frontlets  between  his  eyes.  His  attacks  were,  in 
general,  directed  less  against  particular  abuses  than 
against  those  deeply  seated  errors  on  which  almost 
all  abuses  are  founded,  the  servile  worship  of  eminent 
men  and  the  irrational  dread  of  innovation. 

That  he  might  shake  the  foundations  of  these 
debasing  sentiments  more  effectually,  he  always 
selected  for  himself  the  boldest  literary  services.  He 
never  came  up  in  the  rear  when  the  outworks  had  been 
carried  and  the  breach  entered.  He  pressed  into  the 
forlorn  hope.  At  the  beginning  of  the  changes,  he 
wrote  with  incomparable  energy  and  eloquence  against 
the  bishops.  But,  when  his  opinion  seemed  likely  to 
prevail,  he  passed  on  to  other  subjects,  and  abandoned 
prelacy  to  the  crowd  of  writers  who  now  hastened  to 
insult  a  falling  party.  There  is  no  more  hazardous 
enterprise  than  that  of  bearing  the  torch  of  truth  into 
those  dark  and  infected  recesses  in  which  no  light  has 
ever  shone.  But  it  was  the  choice  and  the  pleasure  of 
Milton  to  penetrate  the  noisome  vapors,  and  to  brave 
the  terrible  explosion.  Those  who  most  disapprove 
of  his  opinions  must  respect  the  hardihood  with  which 
he  maintained  them.  He,  in  general,  left  to  others  the 
credit  of  expounding  and  defending  the  popular  parts 
of  his  religious  and  political  creed.  He  took  his  own 
stand  upon  those  which  the  great  body  of  his  country- 
men reprobated  as  criminal,  or  derided  as  paradoxical. 
He  stood  up  for  divorce  and  regicide.  He  attacked 
the  prevailing  systems  of  education.  His  radiant  and 
beneficent  career  resembled  that  of  the  god  of  light 
and  fertility. 

"  Nitor  in  adversum ;  nee  me,  qui  csetera,  vincit 
Impetus,  et  rapido  contrarius  evehor  orbi." 


MILTON.  65 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  prose  writings  of 
Milton  should,  in  our  time,  be  so  little  read.  As 
compositions,  they  deserve  the  attention  of  every 
man  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted  with  the 
full  power  of  the  English  language.  They  abound 
with  passages  compared  with  which  the  finest  dec- 
lamations of  Burke  sink  into  insignificance.  They 
are  a  perfect  field  of  cloth  of  gold.  The  style  is  stiff 
with  gorgeous  embroidery.  Not  even  in  the  earlier 
books  of  the  Paradise  Lost  has  the  great  poet  ever 
risen  higher  than  in  those  parts  of  his  controversial 
works  in  which  his  feelings,  excited  by  conflict,  find 
a  vent  in  bursts  of  devotional  and  lyric  rapture.  It 
is,  to  borrow  his  own  majestic  language,  "  a  sevenfold 
chorus  of  hallelujahs  and  harping  symphonies." 

We  had  intended  to  look  more  closely  at  these  per- 
formances, to  analyze  the  peculiarities  of  the  diction, 
to  dwell  at  some  length  on  the  sublime  wisdom  of  the 
Areopagitica  and  the  nervous  rhetoric  of  the  Icono- 
clast, and  to  point  out  some  of  those  magnificent 
passages  which  occur  in  the  Treatise  of  Reformation, 
and  the  Animadversions  on  the  Remonstrant.  But 
the  length  to  which  our  remarks  have  already  extended 
renders  this  impossible. 

We  must  conclude.  And  yet  we  can  scarcely  tear 
ourselves  away  from  the  subject.  The  days  immedi- 
ately following  the  publication  of  this  relic  of  Milton 
appear  to  be  peculiarly  set  apart,  and  consecrated  to 
his  memory.  And  we  shall  scarcely  be  censured  if, 
on  this  his  festival,  we  be  found  lingering  near  his 
shrine,  how  worthless  soever  may  be  the  offering 
which  we  bring  to  it.  While  this  book  lies  on  our 
table,  we  seem  to  be  contemporaries  of  the  writer. 
We  are  transported  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  back. 


66  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

We  can  almost  fancy  that  we  are  visiting  him  in  his 
small  lodging;  that  we  see  him  sitting  at  the  old 
organ  beneath  the  faded  green  hangings  :  that  we  can 
catch  the  quick  twinkle  of  his  eyes,  rolling  in  vain  to 
find  the  day :  that  we  are  reading  in  the  lines  of  his 
noble  countenance  the  proud  and  mournful  history  of 
his  glory  and  his  affliction.  We  image  to  ourselves 
the  breathless  silence  in  which  we  should  listen  to 
his  slightest  word,  the  passionate  veneration  with 
which  we  should  kneel  to  kiss  his  hand  and  weep 
upon  it,  the  earnestness  with  which  we  should  en- 
deavor to  console  him,  if  indeed  such  a  spirit  could 
need  consolation,  for  the  neglect  of  an  age  unworthy 
of  his  talents  and  his  virtues,  the  eagerness  with  which 
we  should  contest  with  his  daughters,  or  with  his 
Quaker  friend  El  wood,  the  privilege  of  reading  Homer 
to  him,  or  of  taking  down  the  immortal  accents  which 
flowed  from  his  lips. 

These  are  perhaps  foolish  feelings.  Yet  we  cannot 
be  ashamed  of  them ;  nor  shall  we  be  sorry  if  what 
we  have  written  shall  in  any  degree  excite  them  in 
other  minds.  We  are  not  much  in  the  habit  of  idoliz- 
ing either  the  living  or  the  dead.  And  we  think  that 
there  is  no  more  certain  indication  of  a  weak  and  ill- 
regulated  intellect  than  that  propensity  which,  for  want 
of  a  better  name,  we  will  venture  to  christen  Boswell- 
ism.  But  there  are  a  few  characters  which  have  stood 
the  closest  scrutiny  and  the  severest  tests,  which  have 
been  tried  in  the  furnace  and  have  proved  pure,  which 
have  been  weighed  in  the  balance  and  have  not  been 
found  wanting,  which  have  been  declared  sterling  by 
the  general  consent  of  mankind,  and  which  are  visi- 
bly stamped  with  the  image  and  superscription  of  the 
Most  High.     These  great  men  we  trust  that  we  know 


MILTON.  67 

how  to  prize ;  and  of  these  was  Milton.  The  sight 
of  his  books,  the  sound  of  his  name,  are  pleasant  to 
us.  His  thoughts  resemble  those  celestial  fruits  and 
flowers  which  the  Virgin  Martyr  of  Massinger  sent 
down  from  the  gardens  of  Paradise  to  the  earth,  and 
which  were  distinguished  from  the  productions  of 
other  soils,  not  only  by  superior  bloom  and  sweet- 
ness, but  by  miraculous  efficacy  to  invigorate  and  to 
heal.  They  are  powerful,  not  only  to  delight,  but  to 
elevate  and  purify.  Nor  do  we  envy  the  man  who 
can  study  either  the  life  or  the  writings  of  the  great 
poet  and  patriot,  without  aspiring  to  emulate,  not 
indeed  the  sublime  works  with  which  his  genius  has 
enriched  our  literature,  but  the  zeal  with  which  he 
labored  for  the  public  good,  the  fortitude  with  which 
he  endured  every  private  calamity,  the  lofty  disdain 
with  which  he  looked  down  on  temptations  and  dan- 
gers, the  deadly  hatred  which  he  bore  to  bigots  and 
tyrants,  and  the  faith  which  he  so  sternly  kept  with 
his  country  and  with  his  fame. 


"Nil  s.f. 

JOHN  DRYDEN. 

I 63I-I70O. 

The  occasion  of  the  essay  on  Dryden,  printed  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1828,  was  the  publi- 
cation of  The  Poetical  Works  of  John  Dryden,  in  two 
volumes.  The  essay  has  a  peculiar  value  in  that  it 
sets  forth  very  clearly  Macaulay's  views  on  the  subject 
of  literary  criticism.  The  reader  is  thereby  enabled 
to  find  in  narrow  compass  both  the  theory  and  the 
practice.  Dryden,  too,  is  made  an  occasion  for  a  re- 
iteration of  Macaulay's  pet  doctrine  concerning  the 
decay  of  poetic  fancy  caused  by  the  progress  of  civili- 
zation. The  claim  that  the  "  creative  faculty  and 
the  critical  faculty  cannot  exist  together  in  their 
highest  perfection  "  is  explained  and  defended  by  the 
familiar  argument  first  advanced  in  the  essay  on  Mil- 
ton. Curious  readers  may  find  the  literature  on  the 
subject  by  consulting  Gay  ley  and  Scott's  Introduction 
to  the  Study  of  Literary  Criticism. 

{Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1828.) 

The  public  voice  has  assigned  to  Dryden  the  first 
place  in  the  second  rank  of  our  poets,  —  no  mean 
station  in  a  table  of  intellectual  precedency  so  rich  in 
illustrious  names.  It  is  allowed  that,  even  of  the  few 
who  were  his  superiors  in  genius,  none  has  exercised 
a  more  extensive  or  permanent  influence  on  the  na- 
tional habits  of  thought  and  expression.  His  life 
was  commensurate  with  the  period  during  which  a 
great  revolution  in  the  public  taste  was  effected ;  and 
68 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  69 

in  that  revolution  he  played  the  part  of  Cromwell. 
By  unscrupulously  taking  the  lead  in  its  wildest  ex- 
cesses, he  obtained  the  absolute  guidance  of  it.  By 
trampling  on  laws,  he  acquired  the  authority  of  a 
legislator.  By  signalizing  himself  as  the  most  daring 
and  irreverent  of  rebels,  he  raised  himself  to  the  dig- 
nity of  a  recognized  prince.  He  commenced  his 
career  by  the  most  frantic  outrages.  He  terminated 
it  in  the  repose  of  established  sovereignty,  —  the 
author  of  a  new  code,  the  root  of  a  new  dynasty. 

Of  Dryden,  however,  as  of  almost  every  man  who 
has  been  distinguished  either  in  the  literary  or  in  the 
political  world,  it  may  be  said  that  the  course  which 
he  pursued,  and  the  effect  which  he  produced,  de- 
pended less  on  his  personal  qualities  than  on  the  cir- 
cumstances in  which  he  was  placed.  Those  who 
have  read  history  with  discrimination  know  the  fallacy 
of  those  panegyrics  and  invectives  which  represent 
individuals  as  effecting  great  "moral  and  intellectual 
revolutions,  subverting  established  systems,  and  im- 
printing a  new  character  on  their  age.  The  difference 
between  one  man  and  another  is  by  no  means  so  great 
as  the  superstitious  crowd  supposes.  But  the  same 
feelings  which  in  ancient  Rome  produced  the  apoth- 
eosis s>i  a  popular  emperor,  and  in  modern  Rome 
the  canonization  of  a  devout  prelate,  led  men  to  cher- 
ish an  illusion  which  furnishes  them  with  something 
to  adore.  By  a  law  of  association,  from  the  operation 
of  which  even  minds  the  most  strictly  regulated  by 
reason  are  not  wholly  exempt,  misery  disposes  us  to 
hatred,  and  happiness  to  love,  although  there  may  be 
no  person  to  whom  our  misery  or  our  happiness  can 
be  ascribed.  The  peevishness  of  an  invalid  vents 
itself  even  on  those  who  alleviate   his  pain.      The 


JO  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

good  humor  of  a  man  elated  by  success  often  displays  it- 
self towards  enemies.  In  the  same  manner,  the  feelings 
of  pleasure  and  admiration,  to  which  the  contempla- 
tion of  great  events  gives  birth,  make  an  object  where 
they  do  not  find  it.  Thus,  nations  descend  to  the 
absurdities  of  Egyptian  idolatry,  and  worship  stocks 
and  reptiles — Sacheverells  and  Wilkeses.  They  even 
fall  prostrate  before  a  deity  to  which  they  have  them- 
selves given  the  form  which  commands  their  venera- 
tion, and  which,  unless  fashioned  by  them,  would 
have  remained  a  shapeless  block.  They  persuade 
themselves  that  they  are  the  creatures  of  what  they 
have  themselves  created.  For,  in  fact,  it  is  the  age 
that  forms  the  man,  not  the  man  that  forms  the  age. 
Great  minds  do  indeed  re-act  on  the  society  which  has 
made  them  what  they  are  ;  but  they  only  pay  with 
interest  what  they  have  received.  We  extol  Bacon 
and  sneer  at  Aquinas.  But,  if  their  situations  had 
been  changed,  Bacon  might  have  been  the  Angelical 
Doctor,  the  most  subtle  Aristotelian  of  the  schools  ; 
the  Dominican  might  have  led  forth  the  sciences 
from  their  house  of  bondage.  If  Luther  had  been 
born  in  the  tenth  century,  he  would  have  effected  no 
reformation.  If  he  had  never  been  born  at  all,  it  is 
evident  that  the  sixteenth  century  could  not  have 
elapsed  without  a  great  schism  in  the  church.  Vol- 
taire, in  the  days  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  would  prob- 
ably have  been,  like  most  of  the  literary  men  of  that 
time,  a  zealous  Jansenist,  eminent  among  the  defenders 
of  efficacious  grace,  a  bitter  assailant  of  the  lax  moral- 
ity of  the  Jesuits  and  the  unreasonable  decisions  of 
the  Sorbonne.  If  Pascal  had  entered  on  his  literary 
career  when  intelligence  was  more  general,  and  abuses 
at  the  same  time  more  flagrant,  when  the  church  was 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  J\ 

polluted  by  the  Iscariot  Dubois,  the  court  disgraced  by 
the  orgies  of  Canillac,  and  the  nation  sacrificed  to 
the  juggles  of  Law,  if  he  had  lived  to  see  a  dynasty 
of  harlots,  an  empty  treasury  and  a  crowded  harem, 
an  army  formidable  only  to  those  whom  it  should 
have  protected,  a  priesthood  just  religious  enough  to 
be  intolerant,  he  might  possibly,  like  every  man  of 
genius  in  France,  have  imbibed  extravagant  prejudices 
against  monarchy  and  Christianity.  The  wit  which 
blasted  the  sophisms  of  Escobar — the  impassioned 
eloquence  which  defended  the  sisters  of  Port  Royal 
—  the  intellectual  hardihood  which  was  not  beaten 
down  even  by  Papal  authority  —  might  have  raised 
him  to  the  Patriarchate  of  the  Philosophical  Church. 
It  was  long  disputed  whether  the  honor  of  inventing 
the  method  of  Fluxions  belonged  to  Newton  or  to 
Leibnitz.  It  is  now  generally  allowed  that  these 
great  men  made  the  same  discovery  at  the  same  time. 
Mathematical  science,  indeed,  had  then  reached  such 
a  point  that,  if  neither  of  them  had  ever  existed,  the 
principle  must  inevitably  have  occurred  to  some  per- 
son within  a  few  years.  So  in  our  own  time  the  doc- 
trine of  rent,  now  universally  received  by  political 
economists,  was  propounded,  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment, by  two  writers  unconnected  with  each  other. 
Preceding  speculators  had  long  been  blundering  round 
about  it ;  and  it  could  not  possibly  have  been  missed 
much  longer  by  the  most  heedless  inquirer.  We  are 
inclined  to  think  that,  with  respect  to  every  great  ad- 
dition which  has  been  made  to  the  stock  of  human 
knowledge,  the  case  has  been  similar;  that  without 
Copernicus  we  should  have  been  Copernicans,  —  that 
without  Columbus  America  would  have  been  discov- 
ered, —  that  without  Locke  we  should  have  possessed 


72  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

a  just  theory  of  the  origin  of  human  ideas.  So- 
ciety indeed  has  its  great  men  and  its  little  men,  as 
the  earth  has  its  mountains  and  its  valleys.  But 
the  inequalities  of  intellect,  like  the  inequalities  of  the 
surface  of  our  globe,  bear  so  small  a  proportion  to  the 
mass,  that,  in  calculating  its  great  revolutions,  they 
may  safely  be  neglected."  The  sun  illuminates  tne 
hills,  while  it  is  still  below  the  horizon  ;  and  truth  is 
discovered  by  the  highest  minds  a  little  before  it  be- 
comes manifest  to  the  multitucletj  This  is  the  extent 
of  their  superiority.  They  are  the  first  to  catch  and  re- 
flect a  light,  which,  without  their  assistance,  must,  in  a 
short  time,  be  visible  to  those  who  lie  far  beneath  them. 

The  same  remark  will  apply  equally  to  the  fine  arts. 
The  laws  on  which  depend  the  progress  and  decline  of 
poetry,  painting,  and  sculpture,  operate  with  little  less 
certainty  than  those  which  regulate  the  periodical  re- 
turns of  heat  and  cold,  of  fertility  and  barrenness. 
Those  who  seem  to  lead  the  public  taste  are.  in  gen- 
eral, merely  outrunning  it  in  the  direction  which  it  is 
spontaneously  pursuing.  Without  a  just  apprehension 
of  the  laws  to  which  we  have  alluded,  the  merits  and 
defects  of  Dryden  can  be  but  imperfectly  understood. 
We  will,  therefore,  state  what  we  conceive  them  to  be. 

The  ages  in  which  the  master-pieces  of  imagination 
have  been  produced  have  by  no  means  been  those  in 
which  taste  has  been  most  correct.  It  seems  that  the 
creative  faculty,  and  the  critical  faculty,  cannot  exist 
together  in  their  highest  perfection.  The  causes  of 
this  phenomenon  it  is  not  difficult  to  assign. 

It  is  true  that  the  man  who  is  best  able  to  take  a 
machine  to  pieces,  and  who  most  clearly  comprehends 
the  manner  in  which  all  its  wheels  and  springs  con- 
duce to  its  general  effect,  will  be  the  man  most  com- 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  73 

petent  to  form  another  machine  of  similar  power.  In 
all  the  branches  of  physical  and  moral  science  which 
admit  of  perfect  analysis,  he  who  can  resolve  will  be 
able  to  combine.  But  the  analysis  which  criticism  can 
effect  of  poetry  is  necessarily  imperfect.  One  element 
must  forever  elude  its  researches  ;  and  that  is  the  very 
element  by  which  poetry  is  poetry.  In  the  description 
of  nature,  for  example,  a  judicious  reader  will  easily 
detect  an  incongruous  image.  But  he  will  find  it  im- 
possible to  explain  in  what  consists  the  art  of  a  writer 
who,  in  a  few  words,  brings  some  spot  before  him  so 
vividly  that  he  shall  know  it  as  if  he  had  lived  there 
from  childhood  ;  while  another,  employing  the  same 
materials,  the  same  verdure,  the  same  water,  and  the 
same  flowers,  committing  no  inaccuracy,  introducing 
nothing  which  can  be  positively  pronounced  superflu- 
ous, omitting  nothing  which  can  be  positively  pro- 
nounced necessary,  shall  produce  no  more  effect  than 
an  advertisement  of  a  capital  residence  and  a  desirable 
pleasure-ground.  To  take  another  example  :  the  great 
features  of  the  character  of  Hotspur  are  obvious  to  the 
most  superficial  reader.  We  at  once  perceive  that  his 
courage  is  splendid,  his  thirst  of  glory  intense,  his 
animal  spirits  high,  his  temper  careless,  arbitrary,  and  ] 
petulant ;  that  he  indulges  his  own  humor  without  car- 
ing whose  feelings  he  may  wound,  or  whose  enmity  he  J 
may  provoke  by  his  levity.  Thus  far  criticism  will  go. 
But  something  is  still  wanting.  A  man  might  have  all 
those  qualities  and  every  other  quality  which  the  most 
minute  examiner  can  introduce  into  his  catalogue 
of  the  virtues  and  faults  of  Hotspur,  and  yet  he 
would  not  be  Hotspur.  Almost  everything  that 
we  have  said  of  him  applies  equally  to  Falcon- 
bridge.     Yet  in  the  mouth  of  Falconbridge  most  of 


74  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

his  speeches  would  seem  out  of  place.  In  real  life  this 
perpetually  occurs.  We  are  sensible  of  wide  differences 
between  men  whom,  if  we  were  required  to  describe 
them,  we  should  describe  in  almost  the  same  terms. 
If  we  were  attempting  to  draw  elaborate  characters 
of  them,  we  should  scarcely  be  able  to  point  out  any 
strong  distinction  ;  yet  we  approach  them  with  feelings 
altogether  dissimilar.  We  cannot  conceive  of  them 
as  using  the  expressions  or  the  gestures  of  each  other. 
Let  us  suppose  that  a  zoologist  should  attempt  to  give 
an  account  of  some  animal,  a  porcupine  for  instance, 
to  people  who  had  never  seen  it.  The  porcupine,  he 
might  say,  is  of  the  genus  mammalia,  and  the  order 
glires.  There  are  whiskers  on  its  face  :  it  is  two  feet 
long ;  it  has  four  toes  before,  five  behind,  two  fore 
teeth,  and  eight  grinders.  Its  body  is  covered  with  hair 
and  quills.  And,  when  all  this  had  been  said,  would  any 
one  of  the  auditors  have  formed  a  just  idea  of  a  porcu- 
pine ?  Would  any  two  of  them  have  formed  the  same 
idea?  There  might  exist  innumerable  races  of  ani- 
mals, possessing  all  the  characteristics  which  have 
been  mentioned,  yet  altogether  unlike  to  each  other. 
What  the  description  of  our  naturalist  is  to  a  real  por- 
cupine, the  remarks  of  criticism  are  to  the  images  of 
poetry.  What  it  so  imperfectly  decomposes  it  cannot 
perfectly  re-construct.  It  is  evidently  as  impossible  to 
produce  an  Othello  or  a  Macbeth  by  reversing  an 
analytical  process  so  defective,  as  it  would  be  for  an 
anatomist  to  form  a  living  man  out  of  the  fragments 
of  his  dissecting-room.  In  both  cases  the  vital  prin- 
ciple eludes  the  finest  instruments,  and  vanishes  in  the 
very  instant  in  which  its  seat  is  touched.  Hence  those 
who,  trusting  to  their  critical  skill,  attempt  to  write 
poems  give  us,  not  images  of  things,  but  catalogues  of 


JOHN  DRY  DEN.  75 

qualities.  Their  characters  are  allegories  ;  not  good 
men  and  bad  men,  but  cardinal  virtues  and  deadly 
sins.  We  seem  to  have  fallen  among  the  acquaint- 
ances of  our  old  friend  Christian  ;  sometimes  we  meet 
Mistrust  and  Timorous  ;  sometimes  Mr.  Hategood  and 
Mr.  Love-lust ;  and  then  again  Prudence,  Piety,  and 
Charity. 

That  critical  discernment  is  not  sufficient  to  make 
men  poets,  is  generally  allowed.  Why  it  should  keep 
them  from  becoming  poets,  is  not  perhaps  equally 
"evident :  but  the  fact  is,  that  poetry  requires  not  an 
examining  but  a  believing  frame  of  mind.  Those  feel 
it  most,  and  write  it  best,  who  forget  that  it  is  a  work 
of  art ;  to  whom  its  imitations,  like  the  realities  from 
which  they  are  taken,  are  subjects,  not  for  connois- 
seurship,  but  for  tears  and  laughter,  resentment  and 
affection  ;  who  are  too  much  under  the  influence  of 
the  illusion  to  admire  the  genius  which  has  produced 
it ;  who  are  too  much  frightened  for  Ulysses  in  the 
cave  of  Polyphemus  to  care  whether  the  pun  about 
Outis  be  good  or  bad  ;  who  forget  that  such  a  person 
as  SHakspeare  ever  existed,  while  they  weep  and  curse 
with  Lear.  It  is  by  giving  faith  to  the  creations  of 
the  imagination  that  a  man  becomes  a  poet.  It  is  by 
treating  those  creations  as  deceptions,  and  by  resolv- 
ing them,  as  nearly  as  possible,  into  their  elements, 
that  he  becomes  a  critic.  In  the  moment  in  which 
the  skill  of  the  artist  is  perceived,  the  spell  of  the  art 
is  broken. 

These  considerations  account  for  the  absurdities 
into  which  the  greatest  writers  have  fallen,  when  they 
have  attempted  to  give  general  rules  for  composition, 
or  to  pronounce  judgment  on  the  works  of  others. 
They  are  unaccustomed  to  analyze  what  they  feel ; 


?6  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

they,  therefore,  perpetually  refer  their  emotions  to 
causes  which  have  not  in  the  slightest  degree  tended 
to  produce  them.  They  feel  pleasure  in  reading  a 
book.  They  never  consider  that  this  pleasure  may 
be  the  effect  of  ideas  which  some  unmeaning  expres- 
sion, striking  on  the  first  link  of  a  chain  of  associa- 
tions, may  have  called  up  in  their  own  minds  —  that 
they  have  themselves  furnished  to  the  author  the 
beauties  which  they  admire. 

Cervantes  is  the  delight  of  all  classes  of  readers. 
Every  school-boy  thumbs  to  pieces  the  most  wretched 
translations  of  his  romance,  and  knows  the  lantern 
jaws  of  the  Knight  Errant,  and  the  broad  cheeks  of 
the  Squire,  as  well  as  the  faces  of  his  own  playfel- 
lows. The  most  experienced  and  fastidious  judges 
are  amazed  at  the  perfection  of  that  art  which  extracts 
inextinguishable  laughter  from  the  greatest  of  human 
calamities  without  once  violating  the  reverence  due 
to  it ;  at  that  discriminating  delicacy  of  touch  which 
makes  a  character  exquisitely  ridiculous,  without  im- 
pairing its  worth,  its  grace,  or  its  dignity.  In  Don 
Quixote  are  several  dissertations  on  the  principles  of 
poetic  and  dramatic  writing.  No  passages  in  the 
whole  work  exhibit  stronger  marks  of  labor  and 
attention ;  and  no  passages  in  any  work  with  which 
we  are  acquainted  are  more  worthless  and  puerile. 
In  our  time  they  would  scarcely  obtain  admittance 
into  the  literary  department  of  the  Morning  Post. 
Every  reader  of  the  Divine  Comedy  must  be  struck 
by  the  veneration  which  Dante  expresses  for  writers 
far  inferior  to  himself.  He  will  not  lift  up  his  eyes 
from  the  ground  in  the  presence  of  Brunetto.  all 
whose  works  are  not  worth  the  worst  of  his  own 
hundred  cantos.     He  does  not  venture  to  walk  in  the 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  JJ 

same  line  with  the  bombastic  Statius.  His  admira- 
tion of  Virgil  is  absolute  idolatry.  If  indeed  it  had 
been  excited  by  the  elegant,  splendid,  and  harmoni- 
ous diction  of  the  Roman  poet,  it  would  not  have  been 
altogether  unreasonable  ;  but  it  is  rather  as  an  author- 
ity on  all  points  of  philosophy,  than  as  a  work  of 
imagination,  that  he  values  the  ^neid.  The  most 
trivial  passages  he  regards  as  oracles  of  the  highest 
authority,  and  of  the  most  recondite  meaning.  He 
describes  his  conductor  as  the  sea  of  all  wisdom  —  the 
sun  which  heals  every  disordered  sight.  As  he  judged 
of  Virgil,  the  Italians  of  the  fourteenth  century  judged 
of  him  ;  they  were  proud  of  him  ;  they  praised  him  ; 
they  struck  medals  bearing  his  head  ;  they  quarrelled 
for  the  honor  of  possessing  his  remains ;  they  main- 
tained professors  to  expound  his  writings.  But  what 
they  admired  was  not  that  mighty  imagination  which 
called  a  new  world  into  existence,  and  made  all  its 
sights  and  sounds  familiar  to  the  eye  and  ear  of  the 
mind.  They  said  little  of  those  awful  and  lovely 
creations  on  which  later  critics  delight  to  dwell  — 
Farinata  lifting  his  haughty  and  tranquil  brow  from 
his  couch  of  everlasting  fire  — the  lion-like  repose  of 
Sordello  —  or  the  light  which  shone  from  the  celestial 
smile  of  Beatrice.  They  extolled  their  great  poet  for 
his  smattering  of  ancient  literature  and  history ;  for 
his  logic  and  his  divinity ;  for  his  absurd  physics,  and 
his  more  absurd  metaphysics ;  for  everything  but 
that  in  which  he  pre-eminently  excelled.  Like  the* 
fool  in  the  story,  who  ruined  his  dwelling  by  digging 
for  gold,  which,  as  he  had  dreamed,  was  concealed 
under  its  foundations,  they  laid  waste  one  of  the 
noblest  works  of  human  genius,  by  seeking  in  it  for 
buried  treasures  of  wisdom  which  existed  only  in  theii 


78  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

own  wild  reveries.  The  finest  passages  were  little 
valued  till  they  had  been  debased  into  some  mon- 
strous allegory.  Louder  applause  was  given  to  the 
lecture  on  fate  and  free-will,  or  to  the  ridiculous 
astronomical  theories,  than  to  those  tremendous  lines 
which  disclose  the  secrets  of  the  tower  of  hunger,  or 
to  that  half-told  tale  of  guilty  love,  so  passionate  and 
so  full  of  tears. 

We  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  contemporaries  of 
Dante  read  with  less  emotion  than  their  descendants 
of  Ugolino  groping  among  the  wasted  corpses  of  his 
children,  or  of  Francesca  starting  at  the  tremulous 
kiss  and  dropping  the  fatal  volume.  Far  from  it. 
We  believe  that  they  admired  these  things  l|B?than 
ourselves,  but  that  they  felt  them  more.  We  should 
perhaps  say  that  they  felt  them  too  much  to  admire 
them.  The  progress  of  a  nation  from  barbarism 
to  civilization  produces  a  change  similar  to  that  which 
takes  place  during  the  progress  of  an  individual  from 
infancy  to  mature  age.  What  man  does  not  remem- 
ber with  regret  the  first  time  that  he  read  Robin- 
son Crusoe  ?  Then,  indeed,  he  was  unable  to 
appreciate  the  powers  of  the  writer ;  or,  rather,  he 
neither  knew  nor  cared  whether  the  book  had  a 
writer  at  all.  He  probably  thought  it  not  half  so  fine 
as  some  rant  of  Macpherson  about  dark-browed 
Foldath,  and  white-bosomed  Strinadona.  He  now 
values  Fingal  and  Temora  only  as  showing  with  how 
little  evidence  a  story  may  be  believed,  and  with 
how  little  merit  a  book  may  be  popular.  Of  the 
romance  of  Defoe  he  entertains  the  highest  opinion. 
He  perceives  the  hand  of  a  master  in  ten  thousand 
touches  which  formerly  he  passed  by  without  notice. 
But,  though  he  understands  the  merits  of  the  narrative 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  79 

better  than  formerly,  he  is  far  less  interested  by  it. 
Xury  and  Friday,  and  pretty  Poll,  the  boat  with  the 
shoulder-of-mutton  sail,  and  the  canoe  which  could 
not  be  brought  down  to  the  water  edge,  the  tent 
with  its  hedge  and  ladders,  the  preserve  of  kids,  and 
the  den  where  the  goat  died,  can  never  again  be  to 
him  the  realities  which  they  were.  The  days  when 
his  favorite  volume  set  him  upon  making  wheel-bar- 
rows and  chairs,  upon  digging  caves  and  fencing  huts 
in  the  garden,  can  never  return.  Such  is  the  law 
of  our  nature.  Our  judgment  ripens  ;  our  imagina- 
tion decays.  We  cannot  at  once  enjoy  the  flowers  or 
the  spring  of  life  and  the  fruits  of  its  autumn,  the 
pleasures  of  close  investigation  and  those  of  agreeable 
error.  We  cannot  sit  at  once  in  the  front  of  the 
stage  and  behind  the  scenes.  We  cannot  be  under 
the  illusion  of  the  spectacle,  while  we  are  watching 
the  movements  of  the  ropes  and  pulleys  which 
dispose  it. 

The  chapter  in  which  Fielding  describes  the  behav- 
ior of  Partridge  at  the  theatre  affords  so  complete 
an  illustration  of  our  proposition,  that  we  cannot 
refrain  from   quoting   some  part  of  it. 

"  Partridge  gave  that  credit  to  Mr.  Garrick  which  he  had 
denied  to  Jones,  and  fell  into  so  violent  a  trembling  that  his 
knees  knocked  against  each  other.  Jones  asked  him  what  was 
the  matter,  and  whether  he  was  afraid  of  the  warrior  upon  the 
stage  ?  —  '  Oh,  la,  sir,'  said  he,  '  I  perceive  now  it  is  what  you 
told  me.  I  am  not  afraid  of  anything,  for  I  know  it  is  but  a 
play;  and  if  it  was  really  a  ghost,  it  could  do  one  no  harm  at 
such  a  distance  and  in  so  much  company ;  and  yet,  if  I  was 
frightened,  I  am  not  the  only  person.'  — '  Why,  who,'  cries  Jones, 
'  dost  thou  take  to  be  such  a  coward  here  besides  thyself  ?  ' 
— '  Nay,  you  may  call  me  a  coward  if  you  will ;  but  if  that 
little  man  there  upon  the  stage  is  not  frightened,  I  never  saw 


80  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

any  man  frightened  in  my  life.'  *  *  *  He  sat  with  his  eyes 
fixed  partly  on  the  ghost  and  partly  on  Hamlet,  and  with  his 
mouth  open ;  the  same  passions  which  succeeded  each  other 
in  Hamlet,  succeeding  likewise  in  him.  *  *  * 

"  Little  more  worth  remembering  occurred  during  the  play, 
at  the  end  of  which  Jones  asked  him  which  of  the  players  he 
liked  best.  To  this  he  answered,  with  some  appearance  of 
indignation  at  the  question,  'The  King,  without  doubt.'  — 
'  Indeed,  Mr.  Partridge,'  says  Mrs.  Miller,  '  you  are  not  of 
the  same  opinion  with  the  town ;  for  they  are  all  agreed  that 
Hamlet  is  acted  by  the  best  player  who  was  ever  on  the  stage.' 
'  He  the  best  player !  '  cries  Partridge,  with  a  contemptuous 
sneer;  '  why  I  could  act  as  well  as  he  myself.  I  am  sure,  if  I 
had  seen  a  ghost,  I  should  have  looked  in  the  very  same  man- 
ner, and  done  just  as  he  did.  And  then,  to  be  sure,  in  that 
scene,  as  you  called  it,  between  him  and  his  mother,  where 
you  told  me  he  acted  so  fine,  why,  any  man,  that  is,  any  good 
man  that  had  such  a  mother,  would  have  done  exactly  the 
same.  I  know  you  are  only  joking  with  me;  but  indeed, 
madam,  though  I  never  was  at  a  play  in  London,  yet  I  have 
seen  acting  before  in  the  country,  and  the  King,  for  my  money ; 
he  speaks  all  his  words  distinctly,  and  half  as  loud  again  as 
the  other.     Anybody  may  see  he  is  an  actor.'  " 

In  this  excellent  passage  Partridge  is  represented 
as  a  very  bad  theatrical  critic.  But  none  of  those 
who  laugh  at  him  possess  the  tithe  of  his  sensibility 
to  theatrical  excellence.  He  admires  in  the  wrong 
place ;  but  he  trembles  in  the  right  place.  It  is  in- 
deed because  he  is  so  much  excited  by  the  acting  ol 
Garrick,  that  he  ranks  him  below  the  strutting,  mouth- 
ing performer,  who  personates  the  King.  So,  we 
have  heard  it  said  that,  in  some  parts  of  Spain  and 
Portugal,  an  actor  who  should  represent  a  depraved 
character  finely,  instead  of  calling  down  the  applauses 
of  the  audience,  is  hissed  and  pelted  without  mercy. 
It  would  be  the  same  in  England,  if  we,  for  one 
moment,  thought  that  Shylock  or  Iago  was  standing 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  8 1 

before  us.  While  the  dramatic  art  was  in  its  infancy 
at  Athens,  it  produced  similar  effects  on  the  ardent 
and  imaginative  spectators.  It  is  said  that  they 
blamed  yEschylus  for  frightening  them  into  fits  with 
his  Furies.  Herodotus  tells  us  that,  when  Phrynichus 
produced  his  tragedy  on  the  fall  of  Miletus,  they  fined 
him  in  a  penalty  of  a  thousand  drachmas  for  torturing 
their  feelings  by  so  pathetic  an  exhibition.  They  did 
not  regard  him  as  a  great  artist,  but  merely  as  a  man 
who  had  given  them  pain.  When  they  awoke  from 
the  distressing  illusion,  they  treated  the  author  of  it  as 
they  would  have  treated  a  messenger  who  should  have 
brought  them  fatal  and  alarming  tidings  which  turned 
out  to  be  false.  In  the  same  manner,  a  child  screams 
with  terror  at  the  sight  of  a  person  in  an  ugly  mask. 
He  has  perhaps  seen  the  mask  put  on.  But  his  imag- 
ination is  too  strong  for  his  reason ;  and  he  entreats 
that  it  may  be  taken  off. 

We  should  act  in  the  same  manner  if  the  grief  and 
horror  produced  in  us  by  works  of  the  imagination 
amounted  to  real  torture.  But  in  us  these  emotions 
are  comparatively  languid.  They  rarely  affect  our  ap- 
petite or  our  sleep.  They  leave  us  sufficiently  at  ease 
to  trace  them  to  their  causes,  and  to  estimate  the  pow- 
ers which  produce  them.  Our  attention  is  speedily 
diverted  from  the  images  which  call  forth  our  tears  to 
the  art  by  which  those  images  have  been  selected 
and  combined.  We  applaud  the  genius  of  the  writer. 
We.  .applaud  our  own  sagacity  and  sensibility;  and 
we_are  comforted. 

Yet,  though  we  think  that  in  the  progress  of  nations 
towards  refinement  the  reasoning  powers  are  improved 
at  the  expense  of  the  imagination,  we  acknowledge 
that  to  this  rule  there  are  many  apparent  exceptions. 


82  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

We  are  not,  however,  quite  satisfied  that  they  are 
more  than  apparent.  Men  reasoned  better,  for  ex- 
ample, in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  than  in  the  time  of 
Egbert  ;  and  they  also  wrote  better  poetry.  But  we 
must  distinguish  between  poetry  as  a  mental  act,  and 
poetry  as  a  species  of  composition.  If  we  take  it  in 
the  latter  sense,  its  excellence  depends,  not  solely  on 
the  vigor  of  the  imagination,  but  partly  also  on  the 
instruments  which  the  imagination  employs.  Within 
certain  limits,  therefore,  poetry  may  be  improving 
while  the  poetical  faculty  is  decaying.  The  vividness 
of  the  picture  presented  to  the  reader  is  not  neces- 
sarily proportioned  to  the  vividness  of  the  prototype 
which  exists  in  the  mind  of  the  writer.  In  the  other 
arts  we  see  this  clearly.  Should  a  man,  gifted  by 
nature  with  all  the  genius  of  Canova,  attempt  to  carve 
a  statue  without  instruction  as  to  the  management  of 
his  chisel,  or  attention  to  the  anatomy  of  the  human 
body,  he  would  produce  something  compared  with 
which  the  Highlander  at  the  door  of  a  snufT  shop 
would  deserve  admiration.  If  an  uninitiated  Raphael 
were  to  attempt  a  painting,  it  would  be  a  mere  daub ; 
indeed,  the  connoisseurs  say  that  the  early  works  of 
Raphael  are  little  better.  Yet,  who  can  attribute  this 
to  want  of  imagination  ?  Who  can  doubt  that  the 
youth  of  that  great  artist  was  passed  amidst  an  ideal 
world  of  beautiful  and  majestic  forms  ?  Or,  who  will 
attribute  the  difference  which  appears  between  his 
first  rude  essays  and  his  magnificent  Transfiguration 
to  a  change  in  the  constitution  of  his  mind?  In 
poetry,  as  in  painting  and  sculpture,  it  is  necessary 
that  the  imitator  should  be  well  acquainted  with  that 
which  he  undertakes  to  imitate,  and  expert  in  the 
mechanical  part  of  his  art.     Genius  will  not  furnish 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  83 

him  with  a  vocabulary :  it  will  not  teach  him  what 
word  most  exactly  corresponds  to  his  idea,  and  will 
most  fully  convey  it  to  others  :  it  will  not  make  him  a 
great  descriptive  poet,  till  he  has  looked  with  attention 
on  the  face  of  nature  ;  or  a  great  dramatist,  till  he 
has  felt  and  witnessed  much  of  the  influence  of  the 
passions.  Information  and  experience  are,  therefore, 
necessary ;  not  for  the  purpose  of  strengthening  the 
imagination,  which  is  never  so  strong  as  in  people 
incapable  of  reasoning  —  savages,  children,  madmen, 
and  dreamers ;  but  for  the  purpose  of  enabling  the 
artist  to  communicate  his  conceptions  to  others. 

In  a  barbarous  age  the  imagination  exercises  a  des- 
potic power.  So  strong  is  the  perception  of  what  is 
unreal  that  it  often  overpowers  all  the  passions  of  the 
mind  and  all  the  sensations  of  the  body.  At  first, 
indeed,  the  phantasm  remains  undivulged,  a  hidden 
treasure,  a  wordless  poetry,  an  invisible  painting,  a 
silent  music,  a  dream  of  which  the  pains  and  pleas- 
ures exist  to  the  dreamer  alone,  a  bitterness  which  the 
heart  only  knoweth,  a  joy  with  which  a  stranger  inter- 
meddleth  not.  The  machinery,  by  which  ideas  are  to 
be  conveyed  from  one  person  to  another,  is  as  yet 
rude  and  defective.  Between  mind  and  mind  there  is  S '  v\ 
a  great  gulf.  The  imitative  arts  do  not  exist,  or  are 
In  their  lowest  state.  But  the  actions  of  men  amply 
prove  that  the  faculty  which  gives  birth  to  those  arts 
is  morbidly  active.  It  is  not  yet  the  inspiration  of 
poets  and  sculptors  ;  but  it  is  the  amusement  of  the  day, 
the  terror  of  the  night,  the  fertile  source  of  wild  super- 
stitions. It  turns  the  clouds  into  gigantic  shapes, 
and  the  winds  into  doleful  voices.  The  belief  which 
springs  from  it  is  more  absolute  and  undoubting  than 
any  which  can  be  derived  from  evidence.     It  resem- 


84  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

bles  the  faith  which  we  repose  in  our  own  sensations. 
Thus,  the  Arab,  when  covered  with  wounds,  saw 
nothing  but  the  dark  eyes  and  the  green  kerchief  of 
a  beckoning  Houri.  The  northern  warrior  laughed 
in  the  pangs  of  death  when  he  thought  of  the  mead  of 
Valhalla. 

The  first  works  of  the  imagination  are,  as  we  have 
said,  poor  and  rude,  not  from  the  want  of  genius,  but 
from  the  want  of  materials.  Phidias  could  have  done 
nothing  with  an  old  tree  and  a  fish-bone,  or  Homer 
with  the  language  of  New  Holland. 

Yet  the  effect  of  these  early  performances,  imperfect 
as  they  must  necessarily  be,  is  immense.  All  deficien- 
cies are  supplied  by  the  susceptibility  of  those  to  whom 
they  are  addressed.  We  all  know  what  pleasure  a 
wooden  doll,  which  may  be  bought  for  sixpence,  will 
afford  to  a  little  girl.  She  will  require  no  other  com- 
pany. She  will  nurse  it,  dress  it,  and  talk  to  it  all 
day.  No  grown-up  man  takes  half  so  much  delight 
in  one  of  the  incomparable  babies  of  Chantrey.  In 
the  same  manner,  savages  are  more  affected  by  the 
rude  compositions  of  their  bards  than  nations  more 
advanced  in  civilization  by  the  greatest  masterpieces 
of  poetry. 

In  process  of  time,  the  instruments  by  which  the 
imagination  works  are  brought  to  perfection.  Men 
have  not  more  imagination  than  their  rude  ancestors. 
We  strongly  suspect  that  they  have  much  less.  But 
they  produce  better  works  of  imagination.  Thus,  up 
to  a  certain  period,  the  diminution  of  the  poetical 
powers  is  far  more  than  compensated  by  the  improve- 
ment of  all  the  appliances  and  means  of  which  those 
powers  stand  in  need.  Then  comes  the  short  period' 
of  splendid  and  consummate  excellence.     And  then, 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  85 

from  causes  against  which  it  is  vain  to  struggle,  poetry 
begins  to  decline.  The  progress  of  language,  which 
was  at  first  favorable,  becomes  fatal  to  it,  and,  instead 
of  compensating  for  the  decay  of  the  imagination, 
accelerates  that  decay,  and  renders  it  more  obvious. 
When  the  adventurer  in  the  Arabian  tale  anointed 
one  of  his  eyes  with  the  contents  of  the  magical  box, 
all  the  riches  of  the  earth,  however  widely  dispersed, 
however  sacredly  concealed,  became  visible  to  him. 
But,  when  he  tried  the  experiment  on  both  eyes,  he 
was  struck  with  blindness.  What  the  enchanted  elixir 
was  to  the  sight  of  the  body,  language  is  to  the  sight 
of  the  imagination.  At  first  it  calls  up  a  world  of 
glorious  illusions ;  but,  when  it  becomes  too  copious, 
it  altogether  destroys  the  visual  power. 

As  the  development  of  the  mind  proceeds,  symbols, 
instead  of  being  employed  to  convey  images,  are  sub- 
stituted for  them.  Civilized  men  think  as  they  trade, 
not  in  kind,  but  by  means  of  a  circulating  medium. 
In  these  circumstances,  the  sciences  improve  rapidly, 
and  criticism  among  the  rest ;  but  poetry,  in  the  high- 
est sense  of  the  word,  disappears.  Then  comes  the 
dotage  of  the  fine  arts,  a  second  childhood,  as  feeble 
as  the  former,  and  far  more  hopeless.  This  is  the 
age  of  critical  poetry,  of  poetry  by  courtesy,  of  poetry 
to  which  the  memory,  the  judgment,  and  the  wit  con- 
tribute far  more  than  the  imagination.  We  readily 
allow  that  many  works  of  this  description  are  excel- 
lent ;  we  will  not  contend  with  those  who  think  them 
more  valuable  than  the  great  poems  of  an  earlier 
period.  We  only  maintain  that  they  belong  to  differ- 
ent species  of  composition,  and  are  produced  by  a 
different  faculty. 

It  is  some  consolation  to  reflect  that  this  critical 


86  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

school  of  poetry  improves  as  the  science  of  criticism 
improves  ;  and  that  the  science  of  criticism,  like  every 
other  science,  is  constantly  tending  towards  perfec- 
tion. As  experiments  are  multiplied,  principles  are 
better  understood. 

In  some  countries,  in  our  own,  for  example,  there 
has  been  an  interval  between  the  downfall  of  the 
creative  school  and  the  rise  of  the  critical,  a  period 
during  which  imagination  has  been  in  its  decrepitude, 
and  taste  in  its  infancy.  Such  a  revolutionary  inter- 
regnum as  this  will  be  deformed  by  every  species  of 
extravagance. 

The  first  victory  of  good  taste  is  over  the  bombast 
and  conceits  which  deform  such  times  as  these.  But 
criticism  is  still  in  a  very  imperfect  state.  What  is 
accidental  is  for  a  long  time  confounded  with  what  is 
essential.  General  theories  are  drawn  from  detached 
facts.  How  many  hours  the  action  of  a  play  may  be 
allowed  to  occupy,  —  how  many  similes  an  Epic  Poet 
may  introduce  into  his  first  book, — whether  a  piece, 
which  is  acknowledged  to  have  a  beginning  and  an 
end,  may  not  be  without  a  middle,  and  other  questions 
as  puerile  as  these,  formerly  occupied  the  attention  of 
men  of  letters  in  France,  and  even  in  this  country. 
Poets,  in  such  circumstances  as  these,  exhibit  all  the 
narrowness  and  feebleness  of  the  criticism  by  which 
their  manner  has  been  fashioned.  From  outrageous 
absurdity  they  are  preserved  indeed  by  their  timidity. 
But  they  perpetually  sacrifice  nature  and  reason  to 
arbitrary  canons  of  taste.  In  their  eagerness  to  avoid 
the  mala  prohibita  of  a  foolish  code,  they  are  perpetu- 
ally rushing  on  the  mala  in  se.  Their  great  prede- 
cessors, it  is  true,  were  as  bad  critics  as  themselves, 
or  perhaps  worse  ;  but  those  predecessors,  as  we  have 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  87 

attempted  to  show,  were  inspired  by  a  faculty  inde- 
pendent of  criticism,  and,  therefore,  wrote  well  while 
they  judged  ill. 

In  time  men  begin  to  take  more  rational  and  com- 
prehensive views  of  literature.  The  analysis  of  poetry, 
which,  as  we  have  remarked,  must  at  best  be  imper- 
fect, approaches  nearer  and  nearer  to  exactness.  The 
merits  of  the  wonderful  models  of  former  times  are 
justly  appreciated.  The  frigid  productions  of  a  later 
age  are  rated  at  no  more  than  their  proper  value. 
Pleasing  and  ingenious  imitations  of  the  manner  of 
the  great  masters  appear.  Poetry  has  a  partial  re- 
vival, a  St.  Martin's  Summer,  which,  after  a  period 
of  dreariness  and  decay,  agreeably  reminds  us  of  the 
splendor  of  its  June.  A  second  harvest  is  gathered 
in ;  though,  growing  on  a  spent  soil,  it  has  not  the 
heart  of  the  former.  Thus,  in  the  present  age,  Monti  1 
has  successfully  imitated  the  style  of  Dante  ;  and 
something  of  the  Elizabethan  inspiration  has  been 
caught  by  several  eminent  countrymen  of  our  own. 
But  never  will  Italy  produce  another  Inferno,  or  Eng- 
land another  Hamlet.  We  look  on  the  beauties  of 
the  modern  imitations  with  feelings  similar  to  those 
with  which  we  see  flowers  disposed  in  vases,  to  orna- 
ment the  drawing-rooms  of  a  capital.  We  doubtless 
regard  them  with  pleasure,  with  greater  pleasure,  per- 
haps, because,  in  the  midst  of  a  place  ungenial  to 
them,  they  remind  us  of  the  distant  spots  on  which 
they  flourish  in  spontaneous  exuberance.  But  we 
miss  the  sap,  the  freshness,  and  the  bloom.  Or,  if  we 
may  borrow  another  illustration  from  Queen  Sche- 
herezade,  we  would  compare  the  writers  of  this  school 
to  the  jewellers  who  were  employed  to  complete  the 
unfinished  window  of  the  palace  of  Aladdin.     What- 


88  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

ever  skill  or  cost  could  do  was  done.  Palace  and 
bazaar  were  ransacked  for  precious  stones.  Yet  the 
artists,  with  all  their  dexterity,  with  all  their  assiduity, 
and  with  all  their  vast  means,  were  unable  to  produce 
anything  comparable  to  the  wonders  which  a  spirit  of 
a  higher  order  had  wrought  in  a  single  night. 

The  history  of  every  literature  with  which  we  are 
acquainted  confirms,  we  think,  the  principles  which 
we  have  laid  down.  In  Greece  we  see  the  imagina- 
tive school  of  poetry  gradually  fading  into  the  critical. 
^Eschylus  and  Pindar  were  succeeded  by  Sophocles, 
Sophocles  by  Euripides,  Euripides  by  the  Alexandrian 
versifiers.  Of  these  last,  Theocritus  alone  has  left 
compositions  which  deserve  to  be  read.  The  splen- 
dor and  grotesque  fairyland  of  the  Old  Comedy,  rich 
with  such  gorgeous  hues,  peopled  with  such  fantastic 
shapes,  and  vocal  alternately  with  the  sweetest  peals 
of  music  and  the  loudest  bursts  of  elvish  laughter, 
disappeared  forever.  The  masterpieces  of  the  New 
Comedy  are  known  to  us  by  Latin  translations  of 
extraordinary  merit.  From  these  translations,  and 
from  the  expressions  of  the  ancient  critics,  it  is  clear 
that  the  original  compositions  were  distinguished  by 
grace  and  sweetness,  that  they  sparkled  with  wit, 
and  abounded  with  pleasing  sentiment ;  but  that  the 
creative  power  was  gone.  Julius  Caesar  called  Ter^~1 
ence  a  half  Menander, —  a  sure  proof  that  Alenander  j 
was  not  a  quarter  Aristophanes. 

The  literature  of  the  Romans  was  merely  a  contin- 
uation of  the  literature  of  the  Greeks.  The  pupils 
started  from  the  point  at  which  their  masters  had, 
in  the  course  of  many  generations,  arrived.  They 
thus  almost  wholly  missed  the  period  of  original  in- 
vention.    The  only  Latin  poets  whose  writings  ex- 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  89 

hibit  much  vigor  of  imagination  are  Lucretius  and 
Catullus.  The  Augustan  age  produced  nothing 
equal  to  their  finer  passages. 

In  France,  that  licensed  jester,  whose  jingling  cap 
and   motley   coat  concealed   more   genius  than  ever/// 
mustered  in  the  saloon  of  Ninon  or  of  Madame  Ge'of-''   I 
frin,  was  succeeded  by  writers  as  decorous  and  as  tire- 
some as  gentlemen-ushers. 

The  poetry  of  Italy  and  of  Spain  has  undergone 
the  same  change.  But  nowhere  has  the  revolution 
been  more  complete  and  violent  than  in  England. 
The  same  person,  who,  when  a  boy,  had  clapped  his 
thrilling  hands  at  the  first  representation  of  the  Tem- 
pest might,  without  attaining  to  a  marvellous  lon- 
gevity, have  lived  to  read  the  earlier  works  of  Prior 
and  Addison.  The  change,  we  believe,  must,  sooner 
or  later,  have  taken  place.  But  its  progress  was  ac- 
celerated, and  its  character  modified,  by  the  politi- 
cal occurrences  of  the  times,  and  particularly  by  two 
events,  the  closing  of  the  theatres  under  the  com- 
monwealth, and  the  restoration  of  the  House  of 
Stuart. 

We  have  said  that  the  critical  and  poetical  faculties 
are  not  only  distinct,  but  almost  incompatible.  The 
state  of  our  literature  during  the  reigns  of  Elizabeth 
and  James  the  First  is  a  strong  confirmation  of  this 
remark.  The  greatest  works  of  imagination  that  the 
world  has  ever  seen  were  produced  at  that  period. 
The  national  taste,  in  the  mean  time,  was  to  the  last  J 
degree  detestable.  Alliterations,  puns,  antithetical 
forms  of  expression  lavishly  employed  where  no  cor- 
responding opposition  existed  between  the  thoughts 
expressed,  strained  allegories,  pedantic  allusions, 
everything,  in  short,  quaint  and  affected,  in  matter 


90  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

and  manner,  made  up  what  was  then  considered  as 
fine  writing.  The  eloquence  of  the  bar,  the  pulpit, 
and  the  council-board  was  deformed  by  conceits 
which  would  have  disgraced  the  rhyming  shepherds 
of  an  Italian  academy.  The  king  quibbled  on  the 
throne.  We  might,  indeed,  console  ourselves  by  re- 
flecting that  his  majesty  was  a  fool.  But  the  chan- 
cellor quibbled  in  concert  from  the  wool-sack ;  and 
the  chancellor  was  Francis  Bacon.  It  is  needless  to 
mention  Sidney  and  the  whole  tribe  of  Euphuists  ;  for 
Shakspeare  himself,  the  greatest  poet  that  ever  lived, 
falls  into  the  same  fault  whenever  he  means  to  be 
particularly  fine.  While  he  abandons  himself  to  the 
impulse  of  his  imagination,  his  compositions  are  not 
only  the  sweetest  and  the  most  sublime,  but  also  the 
most  faultless,  that  the  world  has  ever  seen.  But,  as 
soon  as  his  critical  powers  come  into  play,  he  sinks  to 
the  level  of  Cowley  ;  or  rather  he  does  ill  what  Cow- 
ley did  well.  All  that  is  bad  in  his  works  is  bad  elab- 
orately, and  of  malice  aforethought.  The  only  thing 
wanting  to  make  them  perfect  was,  that  he  should 
never  have  troubled  himself  with  thinking  whether 
they  were  good  or  not.  Like  the  angels  in  Milton, 
he  sinks  '"with  compulsion  and  laborious  flight/1 
His  natural  tendency  is  upwards.  That  he  may  soar, 
it  is  only  necessary  that  he  should  not  struggle  to  fall. 
He  resembles  an  American  Cacique  who,  possessing 
in  unmeasured  abundance  the  metals  which  in  pol- 
ished societies  are  esteemed  the  most  precious,  was 
utterly  unconscious  of  their  value,  and  gave  up  treas- 
ures more  valuable  than  the  imperial  crowns  of  other 
countries,  to  secure  some  gaudy  and  far-fetched  but 
worthless  bauble,  a  plated  button,  or  a  necklace  of 
colored  glass. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  9 1 

We  have  attempted  to  show  that,  as  knowledge  is 
extended  and  as  the  reason  develops  itself,  the  imi- 
tative arts  decay.  We  should,  therefore,  expect  that 
the  corruption  of  poetry  would  commence  in  the  edu- 
cated classes  of  society.  And  this,  in  fact,  is  almost 
'constantly  the  case.  The  few  great  works  of  imag- 
ination which  appear  in  a  critical  age  are,  almost 
without  exception,  the  works  of  uneducated  men. 
Thus,  at  a  time  when  persons  of  quality  translated 
French  romances,  and  when  the  universities  cele- 
brated royal  deaths  in  verses  about  tritons  and  fauns, 
a  preaching  tinker  produced  the  Pilgrim's  Progress. 
And  thus  a  ploughman  startled  a  generation  which 
had  thought  Hayley  and  Beattie  great  poets,  with  the 
adventures  of  Tarn  CTShanter.  Even  in  the  latter 
part  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  the  fashionable  poetry 
had  degenerated.  It  retained  few  vestiges  of  the 
imagination  of  earlier  times.  It  had  not  yet  been 
subjected  to  the  rules  of  good  taste.  Affectation  had 
completely  tainted  madrigals  and  sonnets.  The  gro- 
tesque conceits  and  the  tuneless  numbers  of  Donne 
were,  in  the  time  of  James,  the  favorite  models  of 
composition  at  Whitehall  and  at  the  Temple.  .  But, 
ihoygk-tlie  literature  of  the  Court  was  in  its  decay, 
jthe  literature  of  the  people  was  in  its  perfection. 
The  Muses  had  taken  sanctuary  in  the  theatres,  the 
haunts  of  a  class  whose  taste  was  not  better  than  that 
of  the  Right  Honorables  and  singular  good  Lords 
who  admired  metaphysical  love-verses,  but  whose 
imagination  retained  all  its  freshness  and  vigor; 
whose  censure  and  approbation  might  be  erroneously 
bestowed,  but  whose  tears  and  laughter  were  never  in 
the  wrong.  The  infection  which  had  tainted  lyric 
and   didactic   poetry  had  but   slightly  and   partially 


92  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

touched  the  drama.  While  the  noble  and  the  learned 
were  comparing  eyes  to  burning-glasses,  and  tears  to 
terrestrial  globes,  coyness  to  an  enthymeme,  absence 
to  a  pair  of  compasses,  and  an  unrequited  passion  to 
the  fortieth  remainder-man  in  an  entail,  Juliet  leaning 
from  the  balcony,  and  Miranda  smiling  over  the 
chess-board,  sent  home  many  spectators,  as  kind  and 
simple-hearted  as  the  master  and  mistress  of  Fletch- 
er's Ralpho,  to  cry  themselves  to  sleep. 

No  species  of  fiction  is  so  delightful  to  us  as  the 
old  English  drama.  Even  its  inferior  productions 
possess  a  charm  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  kind  of 
poetry.  It  is  the  most  lucid  mirror  that  ever  was 
held  up  to  nature.  The  creations  of  the  great  drama- 
tists of  Athens  produce  the  effect  of  magnificent 
sculptures,  conceived  by  a  mighty  imagination,  pol- 
ished with  the  utmost  delicacy,  embodying  ideas  of 
ineffable  majesty  and  beauty,  but  cold,  pale,  and  rigid, 
with  no  bloom  on  the  cheek,  and  no  speculation  in 
the  eye.  In  all  the  draperies,  the  figures,  and  the 
faces,  in  the  lovers  and  the  tyrants,  the  Bacchanals 
and  the  Furies,  there  is  the  same  marble  chillness 
and  deadness.  Most  of  the  characters  of  the  French 
stage  resemble  the  waxen  gentlemen  and  ladies  in 
the  window  of  a  perfumer,  rouged,  curled,  and  bedi- 
zened, but  fixed  in  such  stiff  attitudes,  and  staring 
with  eyes  expressive  of  such  utter  unmeaningness, 
that  they  cannot  produce  an  illusion  for  a  single 
moment.  In  the  English  plays  alone  is  to  be  found 
the  warmth,  the  mellowness,  and  the  reality  of  paint- 
ing. We  know  the  minds  of  the  men  and  women,  as 
we  know  the  faces  of  the  men  and  women  of  Vandyke. 

The  excellence  of  these  works  is  in  a  great  measure 
the  result  of  two  peculiarities,  which  the  critics  of  the 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  93 

French  school  consider  as  defects,  —  from  the  mix- 
ture of  tragedy  and  comedy,  and  from  the  length  and 
extent  of  the  action.  The  former  is  necessary  to 
render  the  drama  a  just  representation  of  a  world  in 
which  the  laughers  and  the  weepers  are  perpetually 
jostling  each  other,  —  in  which  every  event  has  its 
serious  and  ludicrous  side.  The  latter  enables  us  to 
form  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  characters  with 
which  we  could  not  possibly  become  familiar  during 
the  few  hours  to  which  the  unities  restrict  the  poet. 
In  this  respect,  the  works  of  Shakspeare,  in  particu- 
lar, are  miracles  of  art.  In  a  piece  which  may  be 
read  aloud  in  three  hours,  we  see  a  character  gradu- 
ally unfold  all  its  recesses  to  us.  We  see  it  change 
with  the  change  of  circumstances.  The  petulant 
youth  rises  into  the  politic  and  warlike  sovereign. 
The  profuse  and  courteous  philanthropist  sours  into  a 
hater  and  scorner  of  his  kind.  The  tyrant  is  altered, 
by  the  chastening  of  affliction,  into  a  pensive  moral- 
ist. The  veteran  general,  distinguished  by  coolness, 
sagacity,  and  self-command,  sinks  under  a  conflict 
between  love  strong  as  death,  and  jealousy  cruel  as 
the  grave.  The  brave  and  loyal  subject  passes,  step 
by  step,  to  the  extremities  of  human  depravity.  We 
trace  his  progress,  from  the  first  dawnings  of  unlawful 
ambition  to  the  cynical  melancholy  of  his  impenitent 
remorse.  Yet,  in  these  pieces,  there  are  no  unnatural 
transitions.  Nothing  is  omitted  :  nothing  is  crowded- 
Great  as  are  the  changes,  narrow  as  is  the  compass 
within  which  they  are  exhibited,  they  shock  us  as 
little  as  the  gradual  alterations  of  those  familiar  faces 
which  we  see  every  evening  and  every  morning.  The 
magical  skill  of  the  poet  resembles  that  of  the  Dervise 
in  the  Spectator,  who  condensed  all  the  events  of 


94  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

seven  years  into  the  single  moment  during  which  the 
king  held  his  head  under  the  water. 

It  is  deserving  of  remark,  that,  at  the  time  of 
which  we  speak,  the  plays  even  of  men  not  eminently 
distinguished  by  genius,  —  such,  for  example,  as  Jon- 
son,  —  were  far  superior  to  the  best  works  of  imagi- 
nation in  other  departments.  Therefore,  though 
we  conceive  that,  from  causes  which  we  have  already 
investigated,  our  poetry  must  necessarily  have 
declined,  we  think  that,  unless  its  fate  had  been 
accelerated  by  external  attacks,  it  might  have  en- 
joyed an  euthanasia,  that  genius  might  have  been 
kept  alive  by  the  drama  till  its  place  could,  in  some 
degree,  be  supplied  by  taste,  —  that  there  would  have 
been  scarcely  any  interval  between  the  age  of  sub- 
lime invention  and  that  of  agreeable  imitation. 
The  works  of  Shakspeare,  which  were  not  appreci- 
ated with  any  degree  of  justice  before  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  might  then  have  been  the 
recognized  standards  of  excellence  during  the  latter 
part  of  the  seventeenth  ;  and  he  and  the  great  Eliza- 
bethan writers  might  have  been  almost  immediately 
succeeded  by  a  generation  of  poets  similar  to  those 
who  adorn  our  own  times. 

But  the  Puritans  drove  imagination  from  its  last 
asylum.  They  prohibited  theatrical  representations, 
and  stigmatized  the  whole  race  of  dramatists  as 
enemies  of  morality  and  religion.  Much  that  is 
objectionable  may  be  found  in  the  writers  whom  they 
reprobated  ;  but  whether  they  took  the  best  measures 
for  stopping  the  evil  appears  to  us  very  doubtful,  and 
must,  we  think,  have  appeared  doubtful  to  them- 
selves, when,  after  the  lapse  of  a  few  years,  they 
saw  the  unclean  spirit  whom  they  had  cast  out  return 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  95 

to  his  old  haunts,  with  seven  others  fouler  than 
himself. 

By  the  extinction  of  the  drama,  the  fashionable 
school  of  poetry  —  a  school  without  truth  of  senti- 
ment or  harmony  of  versification,  —  without  the 
powers  of  an  earlier,  or  the  correctness  of  a  later  age 
—  was  left  to  enjoy  undisputed  ascendency.  A  vi- 
cious ingenuity,  a  morbid  quickness  to  perceive  resem- 
blances and  analogies  between  things  apparently 
heterogeneous,  constituted  almost  its  only  claim  to 
admiration.  Suckling  was  dead.  Milton  was  ab- 
sorbed in  political  and  theological  controversy.  If 
Waller  differed  from  the  Cowleian  sect  of  writers,  he 
differed  for  the  worse.  He  had  as  little  poetry  as 
they,  and  much  less  wit ;  nor  is  the  languor  of  his 
verses  less  offensive  than  the  ruggedness  of  theirs. 
In  Dedham  alone  the  faint  dawn  of  a  better  manner 
was  discernible. 

But,  low  as  was  the  state  of  our  poetry  during  the 
civil  war  and  the  Protectorate,  a  still  deeper  fall  was 
at  hand.  Hitherto  our  literature  had  been  idiomatic. 
In  mind  as  in  situation  we  had  been  islanders.  The 
revolutions  in  our  taste,  like  the  revolutions  in  our 
government,  had  been  settled  without  the  interfer- 
ence of  strangers.  Had  this  state  of  things  con- 
tinued, the  same  just  principles  of  reasoning  which, 
about  this  time,  were  applied  with  unprecedented 
success  to  every  part  of  philosophy  would  soon  have 
conducted  our  ancestors  to  a  sounder  code  of  criticism. 
There  were  already  strong  signs  of  improvement. 
Our  prose  had  at  length  worked  itself  clear  from  those 
quaint  conceits  which  still  deformed  almost  every 
metrical  composition.  The  parliamentary  debates, 
and  the  diplomatic  correspondence  of  that  eventful 


g6  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

period,  had  contributed  much  to  this  reform.  In  such 
bustling  times,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  speak 
and  write  to  the  purpose.  The  absurdities  of  Puri- 
tanism had,  perhaps,  done  more.  At  the  time  when 
that  odious  style,  which  deforms  the  writings  of  Hall 
and  of  Lord  Bacon,  was  almost  universal,  had 
appeared  that  stupendous  work,  the  English  Bible,  — 
a  book  which,  if  everything  else  in  our  language 
should  perish,  would  alone  suffice  to  show  the  whole 
extent  of  its  beauty  and  power.  The  respect  which 
the  translators  felt  for  the  original  prevented  them 
from  adding  any  of  the  hideous  decorations  then  in 
fashion.  The  ground-work  of  the  version,  indeed, 
was  of  an  earlier  age.  The  familiarity  with  which  the 
Puritans,  on  almost  every  occasion,  used  the  Scrip- 
tural phrases  was  no  doubt  very  ridiculous  ;  but  it 
produced  good  effects.  It  was  a  cant ;  but  it  drove 
out  a  cant  far  more  offensive. 

The  highest  kind  of  poetry  is,  in  a  great  measure, 
independent  of  those  circumstances  which  regulate 
the  style  of  composition  in  prose.  But  with  that 
inferior  species  of  poetry  which  succeeds  to  it  the 
case  is  widely  different.  In  a  few  years,  the  good 
sense  and  good  taste  which  had  weeded  out  affecta- 
tion from  moral  and  political  treatises  would,  in  the 
natural  course  of  things,  have  effected  a  similar  re- 
form in  the  sonnet  and  the  ode.  The  rigor  of  the 
victorious  sectaries  had  relaxed.  A  dominant  relig- 
ion is  never  ascetic.  The  Government  connived  at 
theatrical  representations.  The  influence  of  Shak- 
speare  was  once  more  felt.  But  darker  days  were 
approaching.  A  foreign  yoke  was  to  be  imposed  on 
our  literature.  Charles,  surrounded  by  the  compan- 
ions of  his  long  exile,  returned   to  govern  a  nation 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  g? 

which  ought  never  to  have  cast  him  out  or  never  to 
have  received  him  back.  Every  year  which  he  had 
passed  among  strangers  had  rendered  him  more  unfit 
to  rule  his  countrymen.  In  France  he  had  seen  the 
refractory  magistracy  humbled,  and  royal  prerogative, 
though  exercised  by  a  foreign  priest  in  the  name  of 
a  child,  victorious  over  all  opposition.  This  spectacle 
naturally  gratified  a  prince  to  whose  family  the  oppo- 
sition of  parliaments  had  been  so  fatal.  Politeness  was 
his  solitary  good  quality.  The  insults  which  he  had 
suffered  in  Scotland  had  taught  him  to  prize  it.  The 
effeminacy  and  apathy  of  his  disposition  fitted  him 
to  excel  in  it.  The  elegance  and  vivacity  of  the 
French  manners  fascinated  him.  With  the  political 
maxims  and  the  social  habits  of  his  favorite  people, 
he  adopted  their  taste  in  composition  and,  when 
seated  on  the  throne,  soon  rendered  it  fashionable 
partly  by  direct  patronage,  but  still  more  by  that  con- 
temptible policy  which,  for  a  time,  made  England 
the  last  of  the  nations,  and  raised  Louis  the  Four- 
teenth to  a  height  of  power  and  fame,  such  as  no 
French  sovereign  had  ever  before  attained. 

It  was  to  please  Charles  that  rhyme  was  first  intro- 
duced into  our  plays.  Thus,  a  rising  blow,  which 
would  at  any  time  have  been  mortal,  was  dealt  to  the 
English  Drama,  then  just  recovering  from  its  languish- 
ing condition.  Two  detestable  manners,  the  indige- 
nous and  the  imported,  were  now  in  a  state  of  alternate 
conflict  and  amalgamation.  The  bombastic  meanness 
of  the  new  style  was  blended  with  the  ingenious 
absurdity  of  the  old  ;  and  the  mixture  produced  some- 
thing which  the  world  had  never  before  seen,  and 
which,  we  hope,  it  will  never  see  again,  —  something, 
by  the  side  of  which  the  worst  nonsense  of  all  other 


98  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

ages  appears  to  advantage,  —  something,  which  those 
who  have  attempted  to  caricature  it  have,  against 
their  will,  been  forced  to  flatter,  —  of  which  the  trag- 
edy of  Bayes  is  a  very  favorable  specimen.  What 
Lord  Dorset  observed  to  Edward  Howard  might 
have   been   addressed   to   almost  all   his  contempo- 


"  As  skilful  divers  to  the  bottom  fall 
Swifter  than  those  who  cannot  swim  at  all ; 
So,  in  this  way  of  writing  without  thinking, 
Thou  hast  a  strange  alacrity  in  sinking." 

From  this  reproach  some  clever  men  of  the  world 
must  be  excepted,  and  among  them  Dorset  himself. 
Though  by  no  means  great  poets,  or  even  good  versi- 
fiers, they  always  wrote  with  meaning,  and  sometimes 
with  wit.  Nothing  indeed  more  strongly  shows  to 
what  a  miserable  state  literature  had  fallen,  than  the 
immense  superiority  which  the  occasional  rhymes,  care- 
lessly thrown  on  paper  by  men  of  this  class,  possess 
over  the  elaborate  productions  of  almost  all  the  pro- 
fessed authors.  The  reigning  taste  was  so  bad,  that 
the  success  of  a  writer  was  in  inverse  proportion  to 
his  labor,  and  to  his  desire  of  excellence.  An  excep- 
tion must  be  made  for  Butler,  who  had  as  much  wit 
and  learning  as  Cowley,  and  who  knew,  what  Cowley 
never  knew,  how  to  use  them.  A  great  command  of 
good  homely  English  distinguishes  him  still  more 
from  the  other  writers  of  the  time.  As  for  Gondibert, 
those  may  criticise  it  who  can  read  it.  Imagination 
was  extinct.  Taste  was  depraved.  Poetry,  driven 
from  palaces,  colleges,  and  theatres,  had  found  an 
asylum  in  the  obscure  dwelling  where  a  Great  Man, 
born  out  of  due  season,  in  disgrace,  penury,  pain, 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  99 

and  blindness,  still  kept  uncontaminated  a  character 
and  a  genius  worthy  of  a  better  age. 

Everything  about  Milton  is  wonderful ;  but  nothing 
is  so  wonderful  as  that,  in  an  age  so  unfavorable  to 
poetry,  he  should  have  produced  the  greatest  of 
modern  epic  poems.  We  are  not  sure  that  this  is 
not  in  some  degree  to  be  attributed  to  his  want  of 
sight.  The  imagination  is  notoriously  most  active 
when  the  external  world  is  shut  out.  In  sleep  its 
illusions  are  perfect.  They  produce  all  the  effect 
of  realities.  In  darkness  its  visions  are  always  more 
distinct  than  in  the  light.  Every  person  who  amuses 
himself  with  what  is  called  building  castles  in  the  air 
must  have  experienced  this.  We  know  artists  who, 
before  they  attempt  to  draw  a  face  from  memory, 
close  their  eyes,  that  they  may  recall  a  more  perfect 
image  of  the  features  and  the  expression.  We  are 
therefore  inclined  to  believe  that  the  genius  of  Milton 
may  have  been  preserved  from  the  influence  of  times 
so  unfavorable  to  it  by  his  infirmity.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  his  works  at  first  enjoyed  a  very  small  share  of 
popularity.  To  be  neglected  by  his  contemporaries 
was  the  penalty  which  he  paid  for  surpassing  them. 
His  great  poem  was  not  generally  studied  or  admired 
till  writers  far  inferior  to  him  had,  by  obsequiously 
cringing  to  the  public  taste,  acquired  sufficient  favor 
to  reform  it. 

Of  these,  Dryden  was  the  most  eminent.  Amidst 
the  crowd  of  authors  who,  during  the  earlier  years 
of  Charles  the  Second,  courted  notoriety  by  every 
species  of  absurdity  and  affectation,  he  speedily 
became  conspicuous.  No  man  exercised  so  much 
influence  on  the  age.  The  reason  is  obvious.  On 
no  man  did  the  age  exercise  so  much  influence.     He 


IOO  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

was  perhaps  the  greatest  of  those  whom  we  have 
designated  as  the  critical  poets ;  and  his  literary 
career  exhibited  on  a  reduced  scale  the  whole  history 
of  the  school  to  which  he  belonged,  —  the  rudeness 
and  extravagance  of  its  infancy,  —  the  propriety,  the 
grace,  the  dignified  good  sense,  the  temperate  splen- 
dor of  its  maturity.  His  imagination  was  torpid,  till 
it  was  awakened  by  his  judgment.  He  began  with 
quaint  parallels  and  empty  mouthing.  He  gradually 
acquired  the  energy  of  the  satirist,  the  gravity  of  the 
moralist,  the  rapture  of  the  lyric  poet.  The  revolution 
through  which  English  literature  has  been  passing,  from 
the  time  of  Cowley  to  that  of  Scott,  may  be  seen  in 
miniature  within  the  compass  of  his  volumes. 

His  life  divides  itself  into  two  parts.  There  is  some 
debatable  ground  on  the  common  frontier ;  but  the 
line  may  be  drawn  with  tolerable  accuracy.  The 
year  1678  is  that  on  which  we  should  be  inclined  to 
fix  as  the  date  of  a  great  change  in  his  manner. 
During  the  preceding  period  appeared  some  of  his 
courtly  panegyrics,  —  his  Annus  Mirabilis  and  most 
of  his  plays  :  indeed  all  his  rhyming  tragedies.  To 
the  subsequent  period  belong  his  best  dramas,  —  All 
for  Love,  The  Spanish  Friar,  and  Sebastian,  —  his 
satires,  his  translations,  his  didactic  poems,  his  fables, 
and  his  odes. 

Of  the  small  pieces  which  were  presented  to  chan- 
cellors and  princes  it  would  scarcely  be  fair  to  speak. 
The  greatest  advantage  which  the  Fine  Arts  derive 
from  the  extension  of  knowledge  is  that  the  patron- 
age of  individuals  becomes  unnecessary.  Some  writers 
still  affect  to  regret  the  age  of  patronage.  None  but 
bad  writers  have  reason  to  regret  it.  It  is  always  an 
age  of  general  ignorance.    Where  ten  thousand  readers 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  IOI 

are  eager  for  the  appearance  of  a  book,  a  small  contri- 
bution from  each  makes  up  a  splendid  remuneration 
for  the  author.  Where  literature  is  a  luxury,  confined 
to  few,  each  of  them  must  pay  high.  If  the  Empress 
Catherine,  for  example,  wanted  an  epic  poem,  she  must 
have  wholly  supported  the  poet ;  — just  as,  in  a  remote 
country  village,  a  man  who  wants  a  muttonchop  is 
sometimes  forced  to  take  the  whole  sheep  —  a  thing 
which  never  happens  where  the  demand  is  large.  But 
men  who  pay  largely  for  the  gratification  of  their  taste 
will  expect  to  have  it  united  with  some  gratification  to 
their  vanity.  Flattery  is  carried  to  a  shameless  extent ; 
and  the  habit  of  flattery  almost  inevitably  introduces 
a  false  taste  into  composition.  Its  language  is  made 
up  of  hyperbolical  commonplaces,  —  offensive  from 
their  triteness,  —  still  more  offensive  from  their  extrav- 
agance. In  no  school  is  the  trick  of  overstepping  the 
modesty  of  nature  so  speedily  acquired.  The  writer, 
accustomed  to  find  exaggeration  acceptable  and  neces- 
sary on  one  subject,  uses  it  on  all.  It  is  not  strange, 
therefore,  that  the  early  panegyrical  verses  of  Dryden 
should  be  made  up  of  meanness  and  bombast.  They 
abound  with  the  conceits  which  his  immediate  prede- 
cessors had  brought  into  fashion.  But  his  language 
and  his  versification  were  already  far  superior  to  theirs. 
The  Annus  Mirabilis  shows  great  command  of 
expression,  and  a  fine  ear  for  heroic  rhyme.  Here 
its  merits  end.  Not  only  has  it  no  claim  to  be  called 
poetry,  but  it  seems  to  be  the  work  of  a  man  who  could 
never,  by  any  possibility,  write  poetry.  Its  affected 
similes  are  the  best  part  of  it.  Gaudy  weeds  present 
a  more  encouraging  spectacle  than  utter  barrenness. 
There  is  scarcely  a  single  stanza  in  this  long  work  tc 
which  the  imagination  seems  to  have  contributed  any- 


102  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

thing.  It  is  produced,  not  by  creation,  but  by  con- 
struction. It  is  made  up,  not  of  pictures,  but  of 
inferences.  We  will  give  a  single  instance,  and 
certainly  a  favorable  instance,  —  a  quatrain  which 
Johnson  has  praised.  Dryden  is  describing  the 
sea-fight  with  the  Dutch  : 

"  Amidst  whole  heaps  of  spices  lights  a  ball ; 
And  now  their  odors  armed  against  them  fly. 
Some  preciously  by  shattered  porcelain  fall, 
And  some  by  aromatic  splinters  die." 

The  poet  should  place  his  readers,  as  nearly  as  possi- 
ble, in  the  situation  of  the  sufferers  or  the  spectators. 
His  narration  ought  to  produce  feelings  similar  to 
those  which  would  be  excited  by  the  event  itself.  Is 
this  the  case  here  ?  Who,  in  a  sea-fight,  ever  thought 
of  the  price  of  the  china  which  beats  out  the  brains 
of  a  sailor ;  or  of  the  odor  of  the  splinter  which 
shatters  his  leg  ?  It  is  not  by  an  act  of  the  imagina- 
tion, at  once  calling  up  the  scene  before  the  interior 
eye,  but  by  painful  meditation,  —  by  turning  the  sub- 
ject round  and  round,  —  by  tracing  out  facts  into 
remote  consequences,  —  that  these  incongruous  topics 
are  introduced  into  the  description.  Homer,  it  is  true, 
perpetually  uses  epithets  which  are  not  peculiarly 
appropriate.  Achilles  is  the  swift-footed,  when  he 
is  sitting  still.  Ulysses  is  the  much-enduring,  when 
he  has  nothing  to  endure.  Every  spear  casts  a  long 
shadow,  every  ox  has  crooked  horns,  and  every  woman 
a  high  bosom,  though  these  particulars  may  be  quite 
beside  the  purpose.  In  our  old  ballads  a  similar  prac- 
tice prevails.  The  gold  is  always  red,  and  the  ladies 
always  gay,  though  nothing  whatever  may  depend  on 
the  hue  of  the  gold,  or  the  temper  of  the  ladies.     But 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  IO3 

these  adjectives  are  mere  customary  additions.  They 
merge  in  the  substantives  to  which  they  are  attached. 
If  they  at  all  color  the  idea,  it  is  with  a  tinge  so  slight 
as  in  no  respect  to  alter  the  general  effect.  In  the 
passage  which  we  have  quoted  from  Dryden  the  case 
is  very  different.  Preciously  and  aromatic  divert  our 
whole  attention  to  themselves,  and  dissolve  the  image 
of  the  battle  in  a  moment.  The  whole  poem  reminds 
us  of  Lucan,  and  of  the  worst  parts  of  Lucan,  —  the 
sea-fight  in  the  Bay  of  Marseilles,  for  example.  The 
description  of  the  two  fleets  during  the  night  is  per- 
haps the  only  passage  which  ought  to  be  exempted 
from  this  censure.  If  it  was  from  the  Annus  Mirab- 
ilis  that  Milton  formed  his  opinion,  when  he  pro- 
nounced Dryden  a  good  rhymer  but  no  poet,  he 
certainly  judged  correctly.  But  Dryden  was,  as  we 
have  said,  one  of  those  writers  in  whom  the  period  of 
imagination  does  not  precede,  but  follow,  the  period 
of  observation  and  reflection. 

His  plays,  his  rhyming  plays  in  particular,  are 
admirable  subjects  for  those  who  wish  to  study  the 
morbid  anatomy  of  the  drama.  He  was  utterly  desti- 
tute of  the  power  of  exhibiting  real  human  beings. 
Even  in  the  far  inferior  talent  of  composing  characters 
out  of  those  elements  into  which  the  imperfect  pro- 
cess of  our  reason  can  resolve  them,  he  was  very  defi- 
cient. His  men  are  not  even  good  personifications ; 
they  are  not  well-assorted  assemblages  of  qualities. 
Now  and  then,  indeed,  he  seizes  a  very  coarse  and 
marked  distinction,  and  gives  us,  not  a  likeness,  but 
a  strong  caricature,  in  which  a  single  peculiarity  is 
protruded,  and  everything  else  neglected ;  like  the 
Marquis  of  Granby  at  an  inn-door,  whom  we  know  by 
nothing  but  his  baldness ;  or  Wilkes,  who  is  Wilkes 


104  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

only  in  his  squint.  These  are  the  best  specimens  of 
his  skill.  For  most  of  his  pictures  seem,  like  Turkey 
carpets,  to  have  been  expressly  designed  not  to  resem- 
ble anything  in  the  heavens  above,  in  the  earth  be- 
neath, or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth. 

The  latter  manner  he  practises  most  frequently  in 
his  tragedies,  the  former  in  his  comedies.  The  comic 
characters  are,  without  mixture,  loathsome  and  despi- 
cable. The  men  of  Etherege  and  Vanbrugh  are  bad 
enough.  Those  of  Smollett  are  perhaps  worse.  But 
they  do  not  approach  to  the  Seladons,  the  Wildbloods, 
the  Woodalls,  and  the  Rhodophils  of  Dryden.  The 
vices  of  these  last  are  set  off  by  a  certain  fierce,  hard 
impudence,  to  which  we  know  nothing  comparable. 
Their  love  is  the  appetite  of  beasts  ;  their  friendship 
the  confederacy  of  knaves.  The  ladies  seem  to  have 
been  expressly  created  to  form  helps  meet  for  such 
gentlemen.  In  deceiving  and  insulting  their  old 
fathers  they  do  not  perhaps  exceed  the  license  which, 
by  immemorial  prescription,  has  been  allowed  to 
heroines.  But  they  also  cheat  at  cards,  rob  strong 
boxes,  put  up  their  favors  to  auction,  betray  their 
friends,  abuse  their  rivals  in  the  style  of  Billingsgate, 
and  invite  their  lovers  in  the  language  of  the  Piazza. 
These,  it  must  be  remembered,  are  not  the  valets  and 
waiting-women,  the  Mascarilles  and  Nerines,  but  the 
recognized  heroes  and  heroines,  who  appear  as  the 
representatives  of  good  society,  and  who,  at  the  end 
of  the  fifth  act,  marry  and  live  very  happily  ever  after. 
The  sensuality,  baseness,  and  malice  of  their  natures 
is  unredeemed  by  any  quality  of  a  different  descrip- 
tion, —  by  any  touch  of  kindness,  —  or  even  by  any 
honest  burst  of  hearty  hatred  and  revenge.  We  are 
in  a  world  where  there  is  no  humanity,  no  veracity,  no 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  105 

sense  of  shame,  —  a  world  for  which  any  good-natured 
man  would  gladly  take  in  exchange  the  society  of 
Milton's  devils.  But,  as  soon  as  we  enter  the  regions 
of  Tragedy,  we  find  a  great  change.  There  is  no  lack 
of  fine  sentiment  there.  Metastasio  is  surpassed  in 
his  own  department.  Scuderi  is  out-scuderied.  We 
are  introduced  to  people  whose  proceedings  we  can 
trace  to  no  motive,  —  of  whose  feelings  we  can  form 
no  more  idea  than  of  a  sixth  sense.  We  have  left  a 
race  of  creatures,  whose  love  is  as  delicate  and  affec- 
tionate as  the  passion  which  an  alderman  feels  for  a 
turtle.  We  find  ourselves  among  beings  whose  love 
is  a  purely  disinterested  emotion,  —  a  loyalty  extend- 
ing to  passive  obedience,  —  a  religion,  like  that  of  the 
OujetjstSj_unsupported  by  any  sanction  of  hope  or 
tear.  We  see  nothing  but  despotism  without  power, 
and  sacrifices  without  compensation. 

We  will  give  a  few  instances.  In  Aurengzebe, 
Arimant,  governor  of  Agra,  falls  in  love  with  his 
prisoner  Indamora.  She  rejects  his  suit  with  scorn ; 
but  assures  him  that  she  shall  make  great  use  of  her 
power  over  him.  He  threatens  to  be  angry.  She 
answers,  very  coolly : 

"  Do  not ;  your  anger,  like  your  love,  is  vain  : 
Whene'er  I  please,  you  must  be  pleased  again. 
Knowing  what  power  I  have  your  will  to  bend, 
I'll  use  it;  for  I  need  just  such  a  friend." 

This  is  no  idle  menace.  She  soon  brings  a  letter 
addressed  to  his  rival,  —  orders  him  to  read  it,  —  asks 
him  whether  he  thinks  it  sufficiently  tender,  —  and 
finally  commands  him  to  carry  it  himself.  Such  tyr- 
anny as  this,  it  may  be  thought,  would  justify  resist- 
ance.    Arimant  does  indeed  venture  to  remonstrate : 


106  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

"  This  fatal  paper  rather  let  me  tear, 
Than,  like  Bellerophon,  my  sentence  bear." 

The  answer  of  the  lady  is  incomparable  : 

"  You  may ;  but  'twill  not  be  your  best  advice ; 
'Twill  only  give  me  pains  of  writing  twice. 
You  know  you  must  obey  me,  soon  or  late. 
Why  should  you  vainly  struggle  with  your  fate  ?  " 

Poor  Arimant  seems  to  be  of  the  same  opinion.  He 
mutters  something  about  fate  and  free-will,  and  walks 
off  with  the  billet-doux. 

In  the  Indian  Emperor,  Montezuma  presents  Alme- 
ria  with  a  garland  as  a  token  of  his  love,  and  offers  to 
make  her  his  queen.     She  replies  : 

"  I  take  this  garland,  not  as  given  by  you; 
But  as  my  merit's  and  my  beauty's  due ; 
As  for  the  crown  which  you,  my  slave,  possess, 
To  share  it  with  you  would  but  make  me  less." 

In  return  for  such  proofs  of  tenderness  as  these,  her 
admirer  consents  to  murder  his  two  sons  and  a  benefac- 
tor to  whom  he  feels  the  warmest  gratitude.  Lyndar- 
axa,  in  the  Conquest  of  Granada,  assumes  the  same 
lofty  tone  with  Abdelmelech.  He  complains  that  she 
smiles  upon  his  rival : 

"  Lynd.     And  when  did  I  my  power  so  far  resign, 

That  you  should  regulate  each  look  of  mine  ? 
Abdel.    Then,  when  you  gave  your  love,  you  gave  that  power. 
Lynd.      'Twas  during  pleasure  —  'tis  revoked  this  hour. 
Abdel.     I'll  hate  you,  and  this  visit  is  my  last. 
Lynd.      Do,  if  you  can  :  you  know  I  hold  you  fast." 

That  these  passages  violate  all  historical  propriety, 
that  sentiments  to  which  nothing  similar  was  ever  even 
affected  except  by  the  cavaliers  of  Europe,  are  trans- 
ferred to  Mexico  and  Agra,  is  a  light  accusation.     We 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  IO/ 

have  no  objection  to  a  conventional  world,  an  Illyrian 
puritan,  or  a  Bohemian  seaport.  While  the  faces  are 
good,  we  care  little  about  the  background.  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  says  that  the  curtains  and  hangings  in 
a  historical  painting  ought  to  be,  not  velvet  or  cot- 
ton, but  merely  drapery.  The  same  principle  should 
be  applied  to  poetry  and  romance.  The  truth  of 
character  is  the  first  object ;  the  truth  of  place  and 
time  is  to  be  considered  only  in  the  second  place. 
Puff  himself  could  tell  the  actor  to  turn  out  his  toes, 
and  remind  him  that  Keeper  Hatton  was  a  great 
dancer.  We  wish  that,  in  our  time,  a  writer  of  a  very 
different  order  from  Puff  had  not  too  often  forgotten 
human  nature  in  the  niceties  of  upholstery,  millinery, 
and  cookery. 

We  blame  Dryden,  not  because  the  persons  of  his 
dramas  are  not  Moors  or  Americans,  but  because  they 
are  not  men  and  women ;  not  because  love,  such  as 
he  represents  it,  could  not  exist  in  a  harem  or  in  a 
wigwam,  but  because  it  could  not  exist  anywhere.  As 
is  the  love  of  his  heroes  such  are  all  their  other 
emotions.  All  their  qualities,  their  courage,  their 
generosity,  their  pride,  are  on  the  same  colossal  scale. 
Justice  and  prudence  are  virtues  which  can  exist  only 
in  a  moderate  degree,  and  which  change  their  nature 
and  their  name  if  pushed  to  excess.  Of  justice  and 
prudence,  therefore,  Dryden  leaves  his  favorites  des- 
titute. He  did  not  care  to  give  them  what  he  could 
not  give  without  measure.  The  tyrants  and  ruffians 
are  merely  the  heroes  altered  by  a  few  touches,  similar 
to  those  which  transformed  the  honest  face  of  Sir 
Roger  de  Coverley  into  the  Saracen's  head.  Through 
the  grin  and  frown  the  original  features  are  still 
perceptible. 


\  08  LZTEKAX  Y  ESSA  VS. 

It  is  in  the  tragi-comedies  that  these  absurdities 
strike  us  most.  The  two  races  of  men,  or  rather  the 
angels  and  the  baboons,  are  there  presented  to  us 
together.  We  meet  in  one  scene  with  nothing  but 
gross,  selfish,  unblushing,  lying  libertines  of  both 
sexes,  who,  as  a  punishment,  we  suppose,  for  their 
depravity,  are  condemned  to  talk  nothing  but  prose. 
But,  as  soon  as  we  meet  with  people  who  speak  in 
verse,  we  know  that  we  are  in  society  which  would 
have  enraptured  the  Cathos  and  Madelon  of  Moliere, 
in  society  for  which  Oroondates  would  have  too 
little  of  the  lover,  and  Clelia  too  much  of  the 
coquette. 

As  Dryden  was  unable  to  render  his  plays  interest- 
ing by  means  of  that  which  is  the  peculiar  and  appro- 
priate excellence  of  the  drama,  it  was  necessary  that 
he  should  find  some  substitute  for  it.  In  his  come- 
dies he  supplied  its  place,  sometimes  by  wit,  but  more 
frequently  by  intrigue,  by  disguises,  mistakes  of  per- 
sons, dialogues  at  cross  purposes,  hairbreadth  escapes, 
perplexing  concealments,  and  surprising  disclosures. 
He  thus  succeeded  at  least  in  making  these  pieces 
very  amusing. 

In  his  tragedies  he  trusted,  and  not  altogether  with- 
out reason,  to  his  diction  and  his  versification.  It 
was  on  this  account,  in  all  probability,  that  he  so 
eagerly  adopted,  and  so  reluctantly  abandoned,  the 
practice  of  rhyming  in  his  plays.  What  is  unnatural 
appears  less  unnatural  in  that  species  of  verse  than  in 
lines  which  approach  more  nearly  to  common  conver- 
sation ;  and  in  the  management  of  the  heroic  couplet 
Dryden  has  never  been  equalled.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  urge  any  arguments  against  a  fashion  now  univer- 
sally condemned.    But  it  is  worthy  of  observation,  that, 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  109 

though  Dryden  was  deficient  in  that  talent  which 
blank  verse  exhibits  to  the  greatest  advantage,  and 
was  certainly  the  best  writer  of  heroic  rhyme  in  our 
language,  yet  the  plays  which  have,  from  the  time  of 
their  first  appearance,  been  considered  as  his  best, 
are  in  blank  verse.  No  experiment  can  be  more 
decisive. 

It  must  be  allowed  that  the  worst  even  of  the 
rhyming  tragedies  contains  good  description  and 
magnificent  rhetoric.  But,  even  when  we  forget  that 
they  are  plays,  and,  passing  by  their  dramatic  impro- 
prieties, consider  them  with  reference  to  the  language, 
we  are  perpetually  disgusted  by  passages  which  it  is 
difficult  to  conceive  how  any  author  could  have  writ- 
ten, or  any  audience  have  tolerated,  rants  in  which 
the  raving  violence  of  the  manner  forms  a  strange 
contrast  with  the  abject  tameness  of  the  thought.  The 
author  laid  the  whole  fault  on  the  audience,  and 
declared  that,  when  he  wrote  them,  he  considered 
them  bad  enough  to  please.  This  defence  is  un- 
worthy of  a  man  of  genius,  and,  after  all,  is  no  defence. 
Otway  pleased  without  rant ;  and  so  might  Dryden 
have  done,  if  he  had  possessed  the  powers  of  Otway. 
The  fact  is,  that  he  had  a  tendency  to  bombast, 
which,  though  subsequently  corrected  by  time  and 
thought,  was  never  wholly  removed,  and  which  showed 
itself  in  performances  not  designed  to  please  the  rude 
mob  of  the  theatre. 

Some  indulgent  critics  have  represented  this  fail- 
ing as  an  indication  of  genius,  as  the  profusion  of 
unlimited  wealth,  the  wantonness  of  exuberant  vigor. 
To  us  it  seems  to  bear  a  nearer  affinity  to  the  tawdri- 
ness  of  poverty,  or  the  spasms  and  convulsions  of 
weakness.     Dryden  surely  had  not  more  imagination 


110  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

than  Homer.  Dante,  or  Milton,  who  never  fall  into  this 
vice.  The  swelling  diction  of  /Eschylus  and  Isaiah  re- 
sembles that  of  Almanzor  and  Maximin  no  more  than 
the  tumidity  of  a  muscle  resembles  the  tumidity  of  a 
boil.  The  former  is  symptomatic  of  health  and  strength, 
the  latter  of  debility  and  disease.  If  ever  Shakspeare 
rants,  it  is  not  when  his  imagination  is  hurrying  him 
along,  but  when  he  is  hurrying  his  imagination  along,  — 
when  his  mind  is  for  a  moment  jaded,  —  when,  as  was 
said  of  Euripides,  he  resembles  a  lion,  who  exxites  his 
own  fury  by  lashing  himself  with  his  tail.  What  hap- 
pened to  Shakspeare  from  the  occasional  suspension  of 
his  powers  happened  to  Dryden  from  constant  impo- 
tence. He,  like  his  confederate  Lee,  had  judgment 
enough  to  appreciate  the  great  poets  of  the  preceding 
age,  but  not  judgment  enough  to  shun  competition 
with  them.  He  felt  and  admired  their  wild  and  dar- 
ing sublimity.  That  it  belonged  to  another  age  than 
that  in  which  he  lived  and  required  other  talents  than 
those  which  he  possessed,  that,  in  aspiring  to  emulate 
it,  he  was  wasting,  in  a  hopeless  attempt,  powers 
which  might  render  him  pre-eminent  in  a  different 
career,  was  a  lesson  which  he  did  not  learn  till  late. 
As  those  knavish  enthusiasts,  the  French  prophets, 
courted  inspiration  by  mimicking  the  writhings,  swoon- 
ings,  and  gaspings  which  they  considered  as  its  symp- 
toms, he  attempted,  by  affecting  fits  of  poetical  fury, 
to  bring  on  a  real  paroxysm  ;  and,  like  them,  he  got 
nothing  but  his  distortions  for  his  pains. 

Horace  very  happily  compares  those  who,  in  his 
time,  imitated  Pindar  to  the  youth  who  attempted  to 
fly  to  heaven  on  waxen  wings,  and  who  experienced 
so  fatal  and  ignominious  a  fall.  His  own  admi- 
rable good  sense  preserved  him  from  this  error,  and 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  Ill 

taught  him  to  cultivate  a  style  in  which  excellence  was 
within  his  reach.  Dryden  had  not  the  same  self- 
knowledge.  He  saw  that  the  greatest  poets  were 
never  so  successful  as  when  they  rushed  beyond  the 
ordinary  bounds,  and  that  some  inexplicable  good  for- 
tune preserved  them  from  tripping  even  when  they 
staggered  on  the  brink  of  nonsense.  He  did  not  per- 
ceive that  they  were  guided  and  sustained  by  a  power 
denied  to  himself.  They  wrote  from  the  dictation  of 
the  imagination  ;  and  they  found  a  response  in  the 
imaginations  of  others.  He,  on  the  contrary,  sat 
down  to  work  himself,  by  reflection  and  argument, 
into  a  deliberate  wildness,  a  rational  frenzy. 

In  looking  over  the  admirable  designs  which  accom- 
pany the  Faust,  we  have  always  been  much  struck  by 
one  which  represents  the  wizard  and  the  tempter  rid- 
ing at  full  speed.  The  daemon  sits  on  his  furious 
horse  as  heedlessly  as  if  he  were  reposing  on  a  chair. 
That  he  should  keep  his  saddle  in  such  a  posture, 
would  seem  impossible  to  any  who  did  not  know  that 
he  was  secure  in  the  privileges  of  a  superhuman  nature. 
The  attitude  of  Faust,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  perfec- 
tion of  horsemanship.  Poets  of  the  first  order  might 
safely  write  as  desperately  as  Mephistophiles  rode. 
But  Dryden,  though  admitted  to  communion  with 
higher  spirits,  though  armed  with  a  portion  of  their 
power,  and  intrusted  with  some  of  their  secrets,  was 
of  another  race.  What  they  might  securely  venture 
to  do,  it  was  madness  in  him  to  attempt.  It  was 
necessary  that  taste  and  critical  science  should  sup- 
ply his  deficiencies. 

We  will  give  a  few  examples.  Nothing  can  be 
finer  than  the  description  of  Hector  at  the  Grecian 
wall : 


1 1 2  LITERAR  Y  ESS  A  YS. 

6  8'  dp'  ecrdope  (pa.l8ip.os  "Ektwp, 
Nu/crl  007;  d.7d\avTos  virwiria  ■  XdfXTre  8e  xa^KV 
'S/JLepdaXii}),  top  htxro  irepl  X/°°r  8°l°L  °^  X€P°~l 
Aovp'  %xev'  °vK  &v  Tt'5  fJLLV  epvK&Koi  avTiftoXrjaaSy 
N6cr0t  deCiv,  or   icraXro  -rrvras '  Tvpl  8'  5acre  SeSrjei.  — 
Avtikcl  5'  6i  p.ev  reixos  v-rrtplSaaav,  6i  8$  kclt   avras 
Uon]Tas  kakxvvro  7ru\as  '     Aavaioi  8'  i(p6(3Tjdev 
N?)as  d^d  y\acpvpds  '  tifiaSos  8'  dXtacrros  irvx^V- 

What  daring  expressions!  Yet  how  significant! 
How  picturesque  !  Hector  seems  to  rise  up  in  his 
strength  and  fury.  The  gloom  of  night  in  his 
frown,  —  the  fire  burning  in  his  eyes, — the  javelins 
and  the  blazing  armor,  —  the  mighty  rush  through  the 
gates  and  down  the  battlements,  —  the  trampling  and 
the  infinite  roar  of  the  multitude,  —  everything  is  with 
us  ;   everything  is  real. 

Dryden  has  described  a  very  similar  event  in  Maxi- 
min,  and  has  done  his  best  to  be  sublime,  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  There  with  a  forest  of  their  darts  he  strove, 
And  stood  like  Capaneus  defying  Jove; 
With  his  broad  sword  the  boldest  beating  down, 
Till  Fate  grew  pale,  lest  he  should  win  the  town, 
And  turned  the  iron  leaves  of  its  dark  book 
To  make  new  dooms,  or  mend  what  it  mistook." 

How  exquisite  is  the  imagery  of  the  fairy  songs  in 
the  Tempest  and  in  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream ; 
Ariel  riding  through  the  twilight  on  the  bat,  or  sucking 
in  the  bells  of  flowers  with  the  bee  ;  or  the  little  bower- 
women  of  Titania,  driving  the  spiders  from  the  couch 
of  the  Queen  !     Dryden  truly  said,  that 

"  Shakspeare's  magic  could  not  copied  be : 
Within  that  circle  none  durst  walk  but  he." 


JOHN  DR  YD  EN.  1 1 3 

It  would  have  been  well  if  he  had  not  himself  dared 
to  step  within  the  enchanted  line,  and  drawn  on  him- 
self a  fate  similar  to  that  which,  according  to  the  old 
superstition,  punished  such  presumptuous  interference. 
The  following  lines  are  parts  of  the  song  of  his 
fairies  : 

"  Merry,  merry,  merry,  we  sail  from  the  East, 
Half-tippled  at  a  rainbow  feast. 
In  the  bright  moonshine,  while  winds  whistle  loud, 
Tivy,  tivy,  tivy,  we  mount  and  we  fly, 
All  racking  along  in  a  downy  white  cloud; 
And  lest  our  leap  from  the  sky  prove  too  far, 
We  slide  on  the  back  of  a  new  falling  star, 
And  drop  from  above 
In  a  jelly  of  love." 

These  are  very  favorable  instances.  Those  who  wish 
for  a  bad  one  may  read  the  dying  speeches  of  Maxi- 
min,  and  may  compare  them  with  the  last  scenes  of 
Othello  and  Lear. 

If  Dryden  had  died  before  the  expiration  of  the 
first  of  the  periods  into  which  we  have  divided  his 
literary  life,  he  would  have  left  a  reputation,  at  best, 
little  higher  than  that  of  Lee  or  Davenant.  He  would 
have  been  known  only  to  men  of  letters  ;  and  by  them 
he  would  have  been  mentioned  as  a  writer  who  threw 
away,  on  subjects  which  he  was  incompetent  to  treat, 
powers  which,  judiciously  employed,  might  have  raised 
him  to  eminence ;  whose  diction  and  whose  numbers 
had  sometimes  very  high  merit ;  but  all  whose  works 
were  blemished  by  a  false  taste,  and  by  errors  of  gross 
negligence.  A  few  of  his  prologues  and  epilogues 
might  perhaps  still  have  been  remembered  and  quoted. 
In  these  little  pieces  he  early  showed  all  the  powers 
which  afterwards  rendered  him  the  greatest  of  modern 


114  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

satirists.     But,  during  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  he 
gradually  abandoned  the  drama.     His  plays  appeared 
at  longer  intervals.     He  renounced  rhyme  in  tragedy. 
His  language  became  less  turgid —  his  characters  less 
exaggerated.       He    did    not  indeed  produce   correct 
representations  of  human  nature  ;    but  he   ceased  to 
daub  such  monstrous  chimeras  as  those  which  abound 
in  his  earlier  pieces.     Here  and  there  passages  occur 
worthy  of  the  best  ages  of  the  British  stage.     The 
style  which  the  drama  requires  changes   with  every 
change  of  character  and  situation.     He  who  can  vary 
his  manner  to  suit  the  variation  is  the  great  drama- 
tist :  but  he  who  excels  in  one  manner  only  will,  when 
'     /*riat  manner  happens  to  be  appropriate,  appear  to  be 
\*   a  great   dramatist:   as  the  hands  of  a  watch  which 
*/      does  not  go   point  right  once    in   the  twelve  hours. 
y  Sometimes  there  is  a  scene  of  solemn  debate.     This 

a  mere  rhetorician  may  write  as  well  as  the  greatest 
tragedian  that  ever  lived.  We  confess  that  to  us  the 
speech  of  Sempronius  in  Cato  seems  very  nearly  as 
good  as  ShaTcs^e^fe^cotrW^Have  made  it.  But  when 
the  senate  breaks  up,  and  we  find  that  the  lovers  and 
their  mistresses,  the  hero,  the  villain,  and  the  deputy- 
villain,  all  continue  to*  harangue  in  the  same  style,  we 
perceive  the  difference  between  a  man  who  can  write 
a  play  and  a  man  who  can  write  a  speech.  In  the 
same  manner,  wit,  a  talent  for  description,  or  a  talent 
for  narration,  may,  for  a  time,  pass  for  dramatic  genius. 
Dryden  was  an  incomparable  reasoner  in  verse.  He 
was  conscious  of  his  power  ;  he  was  proud  of  it ;  and 
the  authors  of  the  Rehearsal  justly  charged  him  with 
abusing  it.  His  warriors  and  princesses  are  fond  of 
discussing  points  of  amorous  casuistry,  such  as  would 
have    delighted    a   Parliament    of  Love.      They    fre- 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  I  I  5 

quently  go  still  deeper,  and  speculate  on  philosophical 
necessity  and  the  origin  of  evil. 

There  were,  however,  some  occasions  which  abso- 
lutely required  this  peculiar  talent.  Then  Dryden 
was  indeed  at  home.  All  his  best  scenes  are  of  this 
description.  They  are  all  between  men ;  for  the 
heroes  of  Dryden,  like  many  other  gentlemen,  can 
never  talk  sense  when  ladies  are  in  company.  They 
are  all  intended  to  exhibit  the  empire  of  reason 
over  violent  passion.  We  have  two  interlocutors, 
the  one  eager  and  impassioned,  the  other  high,  cool, 
and  judicious.  The  composed  and  rational  character 
gradually  acquires  the  ascendency.  His  fierce  com- 
panion is  first  inflamed  to  rage  by  his  reproaches,  then 
overawed  by  his  equanimity,  convinced  by  his  argu- 
ments, and  soothed  by  his  persuasions.  This  is  the 
case  in  the  scene  between  Hector  and  Troilus,  in  that 
between  Antony  and  Ventidius,  and  in  that  between 
Sebastian  and  Dorax.  Nothing  of  the  same  kind 
in  Shakspeare  is  equal  to  them,  except  the  quarrel 
between  Brutus  and  Cassius,  which  is  worth  them  all 
three. 

Some  years  before  his  death,  Dryden  altogether 
ceased  to  write  for  the  stage.  He  had  turned  his 
powers  in  a  new  direction,  with  success  the  most 
splendid  and  decisive.  His  taste  had  gradually 
awakened  his  creative  faculties.  The  first  rank  in 
poetry  was  beyond  his  reach  ;  but  he  challenged  and 
secured  the  most  honorable  place  in  the  second.  His 
imagination  resembled  the  wings  of  an  ostrich.  It 
enabled  him  to  run,  though  not  to  soar.  When  he 
attempted  the  highest  flights,  he  became  ridiculous; 
but,  while  he  remained  in  a  lower  region,  he  out- 
stripped all  competitors. 


1 16  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

All  his  natural  and  all  his  acquired  powers  fitted  him 
to  found  a  good  critical  school  of  poetry.  Indeed,  he 
carried  his  reforms  too  far  for  his  age.  After  his  death, 
our  literature  retrograded :  and  a  century  was  neces- 
sary to  bring  it  back  to  the  point  at  which  he  left  it. 
The  general  soundness  and  healthfullness  of  his  mental 
constitution,  his  information  of  vast  superficies  though 
of  small  volume,  his  wit  scarcely  inferior  to  that  of  the 
most  distinguished  followers  of  Donne,  his  eloquence, 
grave,  deliberate,  and  commanding,  could  not  save 
him  from  disgraceful  failure  as  a  rival  of  Shakspeare, 
but  raised  him  far  above  the  level  of  Boileau.  His 
I  command  of  language  was  immense.  With  him  died 
the  secret  of  the  old  poetical  diction  of  England, — 
the  art  of  producing  rich  effects  by  familiar  words.  In 
the  following  century,  it  was  as  completely  lost  as  the 
Gothic  method  of  painting  glass,  and  was  but  poorly 
supplied  by  the  laborious  and  tessellated  imitations 
of  Mason  and  Gray.  On  the  other  hand,  he  was 
the  first  writer  under  whose  skilful  management  the 
scientific  vocabulary  fell  into  natural  and  pleasing 
verse.  In  this  department,  he  succeeded  as  completely 
as  his  contemporary  Gibbons  succeeded  in  the  similar 
enterprise  of  carving  the  most  delicate  flowers  from 
heart  of  oak.  The  toughest  and  most  knotty  parts 
of  language  became  ductile  at  his  touch.  His  versi- 
fication in  the  same  manner,  while  it  gave  the  first 
model  of  that  neatness  and  precision  which  the  fol- 
lowing generation  esteemed  so  highly,  exhibited,  at 
the  same  time,  the  last  examples  of  nobleness,  free- 
dom, variety  of  pause,  and  cadence.  His  tragedies  in 
rhyme,  however  worthless  in  themselves,  had  at  least 
served  the  purpose  of  nonsense-verses ;  they  had 
taught  him  all  the  arts  of  melody  which  the  heroic 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  1 17 

couplet  admits.  For  bombast,  his  prevailing  vice,  his 
new  subjects  gave  little  opportunity ;  his  better  taste 
gradually  discarded  it. 

He  possessed,  as  we  have  said,  in  a  pre-eminent 
degree,  the  power  of  reasoning  in  verse ;  and  this 
power  was  now  peculiarly  useful  to  him.  His  logic 
is  by  no  means  uniformly  sound.  On  points  of  criti- 
cism, he  always  reasons  ingeniously ;  and,  when  he 
is  disposed  to  be  honest,  correctly.  But  the  theo- 
logical and  political  questions  which  he  undertook  to 
treat  in  verse  were  precisely  those  which  he  under- 
stood least.  His  arguments,  therefore,  are  often 
worthless.  But  the  manner  in  which  they  are  stated 
is  beyond  all  praise.  The  style  is  transparent.  The 
topics  follow  each  other  in  the  happiest  order.  The 
objections  are  drawn  up  in  such  a  manner  that 
the  whole  fire  of  the  reply  may  be  brought  to  bear 
on  them.  The  circumlocutions  which  are  substituted 
for  technical  phrases  are  clear,  neat,  and  exact.  The 
illustrations  at  once  adorn  and  elucidate  the  reason- 
ing. The  sparkling  epigrams  of  Cowley,  and  the 
simple  garrulity  of  the  burlesque  poets  of  Italy,  are 
alternately  employed,  in  the  happiest  manner,  to  give 
effect  to  what  is  obvious,  or  clearness  to  what  is 
obscure. 

His  literary  creed  was  catholic,  even  to  latitudina- 
rianism  ;  not  from  any  want  of  acuteness,  but  from 
a  disposition  to  be  easily  satisfied.  He  was  quick  to 
discern  the  smallest  glimpse  of  merit ;  he  was  indul- 
gent even  to  gross  improprieties,  when  accompanied 
by  any  redeeming  talent.  When  he  said  a  severe 
thing,  it  was  to  serve  a  temporary  purpose,  —  to  sup- 
port an  argument  or  to  tease  a  rival.  Never  was  so 
able  a  critic  so  free  from  fastidiousness.     He  loved 


7 


I  1 8  LITER AR  Y  ESSA  YS. 

the  old  poets,  especially  Shakspeare.  He  admireci 
the  ingenuity  which  Donne  and  Cowley  had  so  wildly 
abused.  He  did  justice,  amidst  the  general  silence, 
to  the  memory  of  Milton.  He  praised  to  the  skies 
the  school-boy  lines  of  Addison.  Always  looking  on 
the  fair  side  of  every  object,  he  admired  extravagance 
on  account  of  the  invention  which  he  supposed  it  to 
indicate  ;  he  excused  affectation  in  favor  of  wit ;  he 
tolerated  even  tameness  for  the  sake  of  the  correct- 
ness which  was  its  concomitant. 

It  was  probably  to  this  turn  of  mind,  rather  than 
to  the  more  disgraceful  causes  which  Johnson  has 
assigned,  that  we  are  to  attribute  the  exaggeration 
which  disfigures  the  panegyrics  of  Dryden.  No 
writer,  it  must  be  owned,  has  carried  the  flattery  of 
dedication  to  a  greater  length.  But  this  was  not,  we 
suspect,  merely  interested  servility :  it  was  the  over- 
flowing of  a  mind  singularly  disposed  to  admiration, 
—  of  a  mind  which  diminished  vices,  and  magnified 
virtues  and  obligations.  The  most  adulatory  of  his 
addresses  is  that  in  which  he  dedicates  the  State  of 
Innocence  to  Mary  of  Modena.  Johnson  thinks  it 
strange  that  any  man  should  use  such  language  with- 
out self-detestation.  But  he  has  not  remarked  that 
to  the  very  same  work  is  prefixed  an  eulogium  on 
Milton,  which  certainly  could  not  have  been  accept- 
able at  the  court  of  Charles  the  Second .  Many  years 
later,  when  Whig  principles  were  in  a  great  measure 
triumphant,  Sprat  refused  to  admit  a  monument  of 
John  Philips  into  Westminster  Abbey  —  because,  in 
the  epitaph,  the  name  of  Milton  incidentally  occurred. 
The  walls  of  his  church,  he  declared,  should  not  be 
polluted  by  the  name  of  a  republican  !  Dryden  was 
attached,  both  by  principle  and  interest,  to  the  Court. 


JOHN  DRYDEN.  1 1 

But  nothing  could  deaden  his  sensibility  to  excel- 
lence. We  are  unwilling  to  accuse  him  severely, 
because  the  same  disposition,  which  prompted  him 
to  pay  so  generous  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  poet 
whom  his  patron  detested,  hurried  him  into  extrava- 
gance when  he  described  a  princess  distinguished  by 
the  splendor  of  her  beauty  and  the  graciousness  of 
her  manners. 

This  is  an  amiable  temper ;  but  it  is  not  the  temper 
of  great  men.  Where  there  is  elevation  of  character 
there  will  be  fastidiousness.  It  is  only  in  novels  and 
on  tombstones  that  we  meet  with  people  who  are 
indulgent  to  the  faults  of  others,  and  unmerciful  to 
their  own ;  and  Dryden,  at  all  events,  was  not  one  of 
these  paragons.  His  charity  was  extended  most 
liberally  to  others  ;  but  it  certainly  began  at  home. 
In  taste  he  was  by  no  means  deficient.  His  critical 
works  are,  beyond  all  comparison,  superior  to  any 
which  had,  till  then,  appeared  in  England.  They 
were  generally  intended  as  apologies  for  his  own  poems, 
rather  than  as  expositions  of  general  principles ;  he, 
therefore,  often  attempts  to  deceive  the  reader  by 
sophistry  which  could  scarcely  have  deceived  himself. 
His  dicta  are  the  dicta,  not  of  a  judge,  but  of  an 
advocate  —  often  of  an  advocate  in  an  unsound 
cause.  Yet,  in  the  very  act  of  misrepresenting  the 
laws  of  composition,  he  shows  how  well  he  under- 
stands them.  But  he  was  perpetually  acting  against 
his  better  knowledge.  His  sins  were  sins  against 
light.  He  trusted  that  what  was  bad  would  be  par- 
doned for  the  sake  of  what  was  good.  What  was 
good  he  took  pains  to  make  better.  He  was  not  like 
most  persons  who  rise  to  eminence,  dissatisfied  even 
with  his  best  productions.     He  had  set  up  no  un- 


120  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

attainable  standard  of  perfection,  the  contemplation 
of  which  might  at  once  improve  and  mortify  him. 
His  path  was  not  attended  by  an  unapproachable 
mirage  of  excellence,  forever  receding,  and  forever 
pursued.  He  was  not  disgusted  by  the  negligence 
of  others  ;  and  he  extended  the  same  toleration  to 
himself.  His  mind  was  of  a  slovenly  character, — 
fond  of  splendor,  but  indifferent  to  neatness.  Hence 
most  of  his  writings  exhibit  the  sluttish  magnificence 
of  a  Russian  noble,  all  vermin  and  diamonds,  dirty 
linen  and  inestimable  sables.  Those  faults  which 
spring  from  affectation,  time  and  thought  in  a  great 
measure  removed  from  his  poems.  But  his  careless- 
ness he  retained  to  the  last.  If  towards  the  close  of 
his  life  he  less  frequently  went  wrong  from  negligence, 
it  was  only  because  long  habits  of  composition  ren- 
dered it  more  easy  to  go  right.  In  his  best  pieces  we 
find  false  rhymes, — triplets,  in  which  the  third  line 
appears  to  be  a  mere  intruder,  and,  while  it  breaks 
the  music,  adds  nothing  to  the  meaning,  —  gigantic 
Alexandrines  of  fourteen  and  sixteen  syllables,  and 
truncated  verses  for  which  he  never  troubled  himself 
to  find  a  termination  or  a  partner. 

Such  are  the  beauties  and  the  faults  which  may  be 
found  in  profusion  throughout  the  later  works  of 
Dryden.  A  more  just  and  complete  estimate  of  his 
natural  and  acquired  powers  —  of  the  merits  of  his 
style  and  of  its  blemishes  —  may  be  formed  from  the 
Hind  and  Panther  than  from  any  of  his  other  writ- 
ings. As  a  didactic  poem,  it  is  far  superior  to  the 
Religio  Laici.  The  satirical  parts,  particularly  the 
character  of  Burnet,  are  scarcely  inferior  to  the  best 
passages  in  Absalom  and  Achitophel.  There  are, 
moreover,  occasional  touches  of  a  tenderness  which 


JOHN  DRYDEN  121 

affects  us  more,  because  it  is  decent,  rational,  and 
manly,  and  reminds  us  of  the  best  scenes  in  his  trage- 
dies. His  versification  sinks  and  swells  in  happy 
unison  with  the  subject ;  and  his  wealth  of  language 
seems  to  be  unlimited.  Yet,  the  carelessness  with 
which  he  has  constructed  his  plot,  and  the  innumera- 
ble inconsistencies  into  which  he  is  every  moment 
falling,  detract  much  from  the  pleasure  which  such 
various  excellence  affords. 

In  Absalom  and  Achitophel  he  hit  upon  a  new  and 
rich  vein  which  he  worked  with  signal  success.  The 
ancient  satirists  were  the  subjects  of  a  despotic  gov- 
ernment. They  were  compelled  to  abstain  from  politi- 
cal topics,  and  to  confine  their  attention  to  the  frailties 
of  private  life.  They  might,  indeed,  sometimes  ven- 
ture to  take  liberties  with  public  men, 

"  Quorum  Flaminia  tegitur  cinis  atque  Latina." 

Thus  Juvenal  immortalized  the  obsequious  senators 
who  met  to  decide  the  fate  of  the  memorable  turbot. 
His  fourth  satire  frequently  reminds  us  of  the  great 
political  poem  of  Dryden ;  but  it  was  not  written  till 
Domitian  had  fallen  :  and  it  wants  something  of  the 
peculiar  flavor  which  belongs  to  contemporary  invec- 
tive alone.  His  anger  has  stood  so  long  that,  though 
the  body  is  not  impaired,  the  effervescence,  the  first 
cream,  is  gone.  Boileau  lay  under  similar  restraints  ; 
and,  if  he  had  been  free  from  all  restraint,  would  have 
been  no  match  for  our  countryman. 

The  advantages  which  Dryden  derived  from  the 
nature  of  his  subject  he  improved  to  the  very  utmost. 
His  manner  is  almost  perfect.  The  style  of  Horace 
and  Boileau  is  fit  only  for  light  subjects.  The  French- 
man did  indeed  attempt  to  turn  the  theological  reason- 


122  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

ings  of  the  Provincial  Letters  into  verse,  but  with  very 
indifferent  success.  The  glitter  of  Pope  is  cold.  The 
ardor  of  Persius  is  without  brilliancy.  Magnificent 
versification  and  ingenious  combinations  rarely  har- 
monize with  the  expression  of  deep  feeling.  In  Juve: 
nal  and  Dryden  alone  we  have  the  sparkle  and  the 
heat  together.  Those  great  satirists  succeeded  in 
communicating  the  fervor  of  their  feelings  to  mate- 
rials the  most  incombustible,  and  kindled  the  whole 
mass  into  a  blaze,  at  once  dazzling  and  destructive. 
We  cannot,  indeed,  think,  without  regret,  of  the  part 
which  so  eminent  a  writer  as  Dryden  took  in  the  dis- 
putes of  that  period.  There  was,  no  doubt,  madness 
and  wickedness  on  both  sides.  But  there  was  liberty 
on  the  one,  and  despotism  on  the  other.  On  this 
point,  however,  we  will  not  dwell.  At  Talavera  the 
English  and  French  troops  for  a  moment  suspended 
their  conflict,  to  drink  of  a  stream  which  flowed  be- 
tween them.  The  shells  were  passed  across  from 
enemy  to  enemy  without  apprehension  or  molesta- 
tion. We,  in  the  same  manner,  would  rather  assist 
our  political  adversaries  to  drink  with  us  of  that  foun- 
tain of  intellectual  pleasure,  which  should  be  the  com- 
mon refreshment  of  both  parties,  than  disturb  and 
pollute  it  with  the  hayockof  unseasonable  hostilities. 
Macflecnoe  is  inferior  to  Absalom  and  Achitophel, 
only  in  the  subject.  In  the  execution  it  is  even  supe- 
rior. But  the  greatest  work  of  Dryden  was  the  last, 
the  Ode  on  Saint  Cecilia's  Day.  It  is  the  master- 
piece of  the  second  class  of  poetry,  and  ranks  but  just 
below  the  great  models  of  the  first.  It  reminds  us  of 
the  Pedasus  of  Achilles, 

6s,  nai  dvrjTos  eon  ewed  einrois  adavaToioi. 


JOHN  DRYDEN  1 23 

By  comparing  it  with  the  impotent  ravings  of  the 
heroic  tragedies,  we  may  measure  the  progress  which 
the  mind  of  Dryden  had  made.  He  had  learned  to 
avoid  a  too  audacious  competition  with  higher  natures, 
to  keep  at  a  distance  from  the  verge  of  bombast  or 
nonsense,  to  venture  on  no  expression  which  did  not 
convey  a  distinct  idea  to  his  own  mind.  There  is 
none  of  that  "  darkness  visible  "  style  of  which  he  had 
formerly  affected,  and  in  which  the  greatest  poets  only 
can  succeed.  Everything  is  definite,  significant,  and 
picturesque.  His  early  writings  resemble  the  gigan- 
tic works  of  those  Chinese  gardeners  who  attempt 
to  rival  nature  herself,  to  form  cataracts  of  terrific 
height  and  sound,  to  raise  precipitous  ridges  of  moun- 
tains, and  to  imitate  in  artificial  plantations  the 
vastness  and  the  gloom  of  some  primeval  forest. 
This  manner  he  abandoned ;  nor  did  he  ever  adopt 
the  Dutch  taste  which  Pope  affected,  the  trim  par- 
terres, and  the  rectangular  walks.  He  rather  resem- 
bled our  Kents  and  Browns,  who  imitating  the  great 
features  of  landscape  without  emulating  them,  con- 
sulting the  genius  of  the  place,  assisting  nature  and 
carefully  disguising  their  art,  produced,  not  a  Cha- 
mouni  or  a  Niagara,  but  a  Stowe  or  a  Hagley. 

We  are,  on  the  whole,  inclined  to  regret  that 
Dryden  did  not  accomplish  his  purpose  of  writing  an 
epic  poem.  It  certainly  would  not  have  been  a  work 
of  the  highest  rank.  It  would  not  have  rivalled  the 
Iliad,  the  Odyssey,  or  the  Paradise  Lost ;  but  it 
would  have  been  superior  to  the  productions  of  Apol- 
lonius,  Lucan,  or  Statius,  and  not  inferior  to  the 
Jerusalem  Delivered.  It  would  probably  have  been  a 
vigorous  narrative,  animated  with  something  of  the 
spirit  of  the  old  romances,  enriched  with  much  splen- 


124  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

did  description,  and  interspersed  with  fine  declama- 
tions and  disquisitions.  The  danger  of  Dryden  would 
have  been  from  aiming  too  high ;  from  dwelling  too 
much,  for  example,  on  his  angels  of  kingdoms,  and 
attempting  a  competition  with  that  great  writer  who 
in  his  own  time  had  so  incomparably  succeeded  in 
representing  to  us  the  sights  and  sounds  of  another 
world.  To  Milton,  and  to  Milton  alone,  belonged 
the  secrets  of  the  great  deep,  the  beach  of  sulphur,  the 
ocean  of  fire,  the  palaces  of  the  fallen  dominations, 
glimmering  through  the  everlasting  shade,  the  silent 
wilderness  of  verdure  and  fragrance  where  armed 
angels  kept  watch  over  the  sleep  of  the  first  lovers, 
the  portico  of  diamond,  the  sea  of  jasper,  the  sapphire 
pavement  empurpled  with  celestial  roses,  and  the  infi- 
nite ranks  of  the  Cherubim,  blazing  with  adamant  and 
gold.  The  council,  the  tournament,  the  procession, 
the  crowded  cathedral,  the  camp,  the  guard-room,  the 
chase,  were  the  proper  scenes  for  Dryden. 

But  we  have  not  space  to  pass  in  review  all  the  works 
which  Dryden  wrote.  We,  therefore,  will  not  specu- 
late longer  on  those  which  he  might  possibly  have 
written.  He  may,  on  the  whole,  be  pronounced  to 
have  been  a  man  possessed  of  splendid  talents,  which 
he  often  abused,  and  of  a  sound  judgment  the  ad- 
monitions of  which  he  often  neglected  ;  a  man  who 
succeeded  only  in  an  inferior  department  of  his  art, 
but  who,  in  that  department,  succeeded  pre-emi- 
nently ;  and  who,  with  a  more  independent  spirit, 
a  more  anxious  desire  of  excellence,  and  more 
respect  for  himself,  would,  in  his  own  walk,  have 
attained  to  absolute  perfection. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON. 

1672-1719. 

Macaulay's  studies  had  been  especially  devoted  to 
the  political  and  literary  history  of  the  reigns  of 
William  III.,  of  Anne  and  of  George  I.  Of  this 
field  he  was  the  acknowledged  master.  When  the  Life 
of  foseph  Addison  by  Miss  Lucy  Aikin  appeared,  the 
editors  of  the  Edinburgh  Reviezu,  to  which  Macaulay 
had  long  been  a  contributor,  applied  to  him  for  a 
review  of  the  book.  Miss  Aikin's  work  had  been 
poorly  done,  and  there  was  but  little  that  a  reviewer 
could  commend.  Possibly  its  chief  virtue  is  that  it 
furnished  the  occasion  of  Macaulay's  masterly  essay. 
In  June,  1843,  ne  wrote  to  Napier,  the  editor  of  the 
Review,  as  follows  :  "  I  mistrust  my  own  judgment 
of  what  I  write  so  much,  that  I  shall  not  be  at  all 
surprised  if  both  you  and  the  public  think  my  paper 
on  Addison  a  failure ;  but  I  own  I  am  partial  to 
it.  .  .  .  I  am  truly  vexed  to  find  Miss  Aikin's 
book  so  very  bad  that  it  is  impossible  for  us,  with  due 
regard  to  our  own  character,  to  praise  it.  All  that 
I  can  do  is  to  speak  civilly  of  her  writings  generally, 
and  to  express  regret  that  she  should  have  been 
nodding.  I  have  found,  I  will  venture  to  say,  not 
less  than  forty  gross  blunders  as  to  matter  of  fact 
in  the  first  volume.  ...  I  shall  not  again  under- 
take to  review  any  lady's  book  until  I  know  how  it 
is  executed.11 

"5 


126  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

THE   LIFE   AND   WRITINGS   OF    ADDISON.1 

(Edinburgh  Review,  July,  1843.) 

Some  reviewers  are  of  opinion  that  a  lady  who  dares 
to  publish  a  book  renounces  by  that  act  the  franchises 
appertaining  to  her  sex.  and  can  claim  no  exemption 
from  the  utmost  rigor  of  critical  procedure.  From 
that  opinion  we  dissent.  We  admit,  indeed,  that  in 
a  country  which  boasts  of  many  female  writers, 
eminently  qualified  by  their  talents  and  acquire- 
ments to  influence  the  public  mind,  it  would  be  of 
most  pernicious  consequence  that  inaccurate  history 
or  unsound  philosophy  should  be  suffered  to  pass 
uncensured,  merely  because  the  offender  chanced  to 
be  a  lady.  But  we  conceive  that,  on  such  occasions, 
a  critic  would  do  well  to  imitate  the  courteous  Knight 
who  found  himself  compelled  by  duty  to  keep  the  lists 
against  Bradamante.  He,  we  are  told,  defended  suc- 
cessfully the  cause  of  which  he  was  the  champion  :  but 
before  the  fight  began,  exchanged  Balisarda  for  a  less 
deadly  sword,  of  which  he  carefully  blunted  the  point 
and  edge.'2 

Nor  are  the  immunities  of  sex  the  only  immunities 
which  Miss  Aikin  may  rightfully  plead.  Several  of  her 
works,  and  especially  the  very  pleasing  Memoirs  of  the 
Reign  of  James  the  First,  have  fully  entitled  her  to 
the  privileges  enjoyed  by  good  writers.  One  of  those 
privileges  we  hold  to  be  this,  that  such  writers,  when, 
either  from  the  unlucky  choice  of  a  subject,  or  from 

1  The  Life  of  Joseph  Addison,  By  Lucy  Aikin.  2  vols.  8  vo 
London,  1843. 

J  Orlando  Furioso,  xlv.  68. 


ADDISON.  127 

the  indolence  too  often  produced  by  success,  they 
happen  to  fail,  shall  not  be  subjected  to  the  severe 
discipline  which  it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  inflict 
upon  dunces  and  impostors,  but  shall  merely  be 
reminded  by  a  gentle  touch,  like  that  with  which 
the  Laputan  flapper  roused  his  dreaming  lord,  that 
it  is  high  time  to  wake. 

Our  readers  will  probably  infer  from  what  we  have 
said  that  Miss  Aikin's  book  has  disappointed  us.  The 
truth  is,  that  she  is  not  well  acquainted  with  her  sub- 
ject. No  person  who  is  not  familiar  with  the  political 
and  literary  history  of  England  during  the  reigns  of 
William  the  Third,  of  Anne,  and  of  George  the  First 
can  possibly  write  a  good  life  of  Addison.  Now,  we 
mean  no  reproach  to  Miss  Aikin,  and  many  will  think 
that  we  pay  her  a  compliment,  when  we  say  that  her 
studies  have  taken  a  different  direction.  She  is  better 
acquainted  with  Shakspeare  and  Raleigh,  than  with 
Congreve  and  Prior ;  and  is  far  more  at  home  among 
the  ruffs  and  peaked  beards  of  Theobald's  than  among 
the  Steenkirks  and  flowing  periwigs  which  surrounded 
Queen  Anne's  tea  table  at  Hampton.  She  seems  to 
have  written  about  the  Elizabethan  age,  because  she 
had  read  much  about  it ;  she  seems,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  have  read  a  little  about  the  age  of  Addison, 
because  she  had  determined  to  write  about  it.  The 
consequence  is  that  she  has  had  to  describe  men  and 
things  without  having  either  a  correct  or  a  vivid  idea 
of  them,  and  that  she  has  often  fallen  into  errors  of  a 
very  serious  kind.  The  reputation  which  Miss  Aikin 
has  justly  earned  stands  so  high,  and  the  charm  of 
Addison's  letters  is  so  great,  that  a  second  edition  of 
this  work  may  probably  be  required.  If  so,  we  hope 
that  every  paragraph  will  be  revised,  and  that  every 


128  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

date  and  fact  about  which  there  can  be  the  smallest 
doubt  will  be  carefully  verified. 

To  Addison  himself  we  are  bound  by  a  sentiment 
as  much  like  affection  as  any  sentiment  can  be,  which 
is  inspired  by  one  who  has  been  sleeping  a  hundred 
and  twenty  years  in  Westminster  Abbey.  We  trust, 
however,  that  this  feeling  will  not  betray  us  into  that 
abject  idolatry  which  we  have  often  had  occasion  to 
reprehend  in  others,  and  which  seldom  fails  to  make 
both  the  idolater  and  the  idol  ridiculous.  A  man  of 
genius  and  virtue  is  but  a  man.  All  his  powers  can- 
not be  equally  developed ;  nor  can  we  expect  from 
him  perfect  self-knowledge.  We  need  not.  therefore, 
hesitate  to  admit  that  Addison  has  left  us  some  com- 
positions which  do  not  rise  above  mediocrity,  some 
heroic  poems  hardly  equal  to  ParnelPs,  some  criticism 
as  superficial  as  Dr.  Blair's,  and  a  tragedy  not  very 
much  better  than  Dr.  Johnson's.  It  is  praise  enough 
to  say  of  a  writer  that,  in  a  high  department  of  litera- 
ture, in  which  many  eminent  writers  have  distinguished 
themselves,  he  has  had  no  equal ;  and  this  may  with 
strict  justice  be  said  of  Addison. 

As  a  man,  he  may  not  have  deserved  the  adoration 
which  he  received  from  those  who,  bewitched  by  his 
fascinating  society,  and  indebted  for  all  the  comforts 
of  life  to  his  generous  and  delicate  friendship,  wor- 
shipped him  nightly,  in  his  favorite  temple  at  Button's. 
But,  after  full  inquiry  and  impartial  reflection,  we  have 
long  been  convinced  that  he  deserved  as  much  love 
and  esteem  as  can  be  justly  claimed  by  any  of  our 
infirm  and  erring  race.  Some  blemishes  may  un- 
doubtedly be  detected  in  his  character ;  but  the  more 
carefully  it  is  examined,  the  more  will  it  appear,  to  use 
the  phrase  of  the  old  anatomists,  sound  in  the  noble 


ADDISON.  129 

parts,  free  from  all  taint  of  perfidy,  of  cowardice,  of 
cruelty,  of  ingratitude,  of  envy.  Men  may  easily  be 
named,  in  whom  some  particular  good  disposition  has 
been  more  conspicuous  than  in  Addison.  But  the 
just  harmony  of  qualities,  the  exact  temper  between 
the  stern  and  the  humane  virtues,  the  habitual  observ- 
ance of  every  law,  not  only  of  moral  rectitude,  but  of 
moral  grace  and  dignity,  distinguish  him  from  all  men 
who  have  been  tried  by  equally  strong  temptations, 
and  about  whose  conduct  we  possess  equally  full 
information. 

His  father  was  the  Reverend  Lancelot  Addison, 
who,  though  eclipsed  by  his  more  celebrated  son, 
made  some  figure  in  the  world,  and  occupies  with 
credit  two  folio  pages  in  the  Biographia  Britannica. 
Lancelot  was  sent  up,  as  a  poor  scholar,  from  West- 
moreland to  Queen's  College,  Oxford,  in  the  time  of 
the  Commonwealth,  made  some  progress  in  learning, 
became,  like  most  of  his  fellow  students,  a  violent 
Royalist,  lampooned  the  heads  of  the  University,  and 
was  forced  to  ask  pardon  on  his  bended  knees.  When 
he  had  left  college,  he  earned  a  humble  subsistence 
by  reading  the  liturgy  of  the  fallen  Church  to  the 
families  of  those  sturdy  squires  whose  manor  houses 
were  scattered  over  the  Wild  of  Sussex.  After  the 
Restoration,  his  loyalty  was  rewarded  with  the  post 
of  chaplain  to  the  garrison  of  Dunkirk.  When  Dun- 
kirk was  sold  to  France,  he  lost  his  employment.  But 
Tangier  had  been  ceded  by  Portugal  to  England  as 
part  of  the  marriage  portion  of  the  Infanta  Catharine  ; 
and  to  Tangier  Lancelot  Addison  was  sent.  A  more 
miserable  situation  can  hardly  be  conceived.  It  was 
difficult  to  say  whether  the  unfortunate  settlers  were 
more  tormented  by  the  heats  or  by  the  rains,  by  the 


130  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

soldiers  within  the  wall  or  by  the  Moors  without  it. 
One  advantage  the  chaplain  had.  He  ei. ,oyed  an 
excellent  opportunity  of  studying  the  history  and 
manners  of  Jews  and  Mahometans ;  and  of  this 
opportunity  he  appears  to  have  made  excellent  use. 
On  his  return  to  England,  after  some  years  of  banish- 
ment, he  published  an  interesting  volume  on  the 
Polity  and  Religion  of  Barbary,  and  another  on  the 
Hebrew  Customs  and  the  State  of  Rabbinical  learn- 
ing. He  rose  to  eminence  in  his  profession,  and 
became  one  of  the  royal  chaplains,  a  Doctor  of  Divin- 
ity, Archdeacon  of  Salisbury,  and  Dean  of  Lichfield. 
It  is  said  that  he  would  have  been  made  a  bishop  after 
the  Revolution,  if  he  had  not  given  offence  to  the  gov- 
ernment by  strenuously  opposing,  in  the  Convocation 
of  1689.  the  liberal  policy  of  William  and  Tillotson. 

In  1672,  not  long  after  Dr.  Addison's  return  from 
Tangier,  his  son  Joseph  was  born.  Of  Joseph's  child- 
hood we  know  little.  He  learned  his  rudiments  at 
schools  in  his  father's  neighborhood,  and  was  then 
sent  to  the  Charter  House.  The  anecdotes  which  are 
popularly  related  about  his  boyish  tricks  do  not  har- 
monize very  well  with  what  we  know  of  his  riper 
years.  There  remains  a  tradition  that  he  was  the 
ringleader  in  a  barring  out,  and  another  tradition 
that  he  ran  away  from  school  and  hid  himself  in  a 
wood,  where  he  fed  on  berries  and  slept  in  a  hollow 
tree,  till  after  a  long  search  he  was  discovered  and 
brought  home.  If  these  stories  be  true,  it  would  be 
curious  to  know  by  what  moral  discipline  so  mutinous 
and  enterprising  a  lad  was  transformed  into  the  gen- 
tlest and  most  modest  of  men. 

We  have  abundant  proof  that,  whatever  Joseph's 
pranks  may  have  been,  he  pursued  his  studies  vigor- 


ADDISON.  1 3 1 

ously  and  successfully.  At  fifteen  he  was  not  only  fit 
for  the  university,  but  carried  thither  a  classical  taste 
and  a  stock  of  learning  which  would  have  done  honor 
to  a  Master  of  Arts.  He  was  entered  at  Queen's 
College.  Oxford ;  but  he  had  not  been  many  months 
there,  when  some  of  his  Latin  verses  fell  by  accident 
into  the  hands  of  Dr.  Lancaster,  Dean  of  Magdalene 
College.  The  young  scholar's  diction  and  versifica- 
tion were  already  such  as  veteran  professors  might 
envy.  Dr.  Lancaster  was  desirous  to  serve  a  boy  of 
such  promise ;  nor  was  an  opportunity  long  wanting. 
The  Revolution  had  just  taken  place ;  and  nowhere 
had  it  been  hailed  with  more  delight  than  at  Magda- 
lene College.  That  great  and  opulent  corporation 
had  been  treated  by  James,  and  by  his  Chancellor, 
with  an  insolence  and  injustice  which,  even  in  such  a 
Prince  and  in  such  a  Minister,  may  justly  excite 
amazement,  and  which  had  done  more  than  even  the 
prosecution  of  the  Bishops  to  alienate  the  Church  of 
England  from  the  throne.  A  president,  duly  elected, 
had  been  violently  expelled  from  his  dwelling :  a 
Papist  had  been  set  over  the  society  by  a  royal  man- 
date :  the  Fellows  who,  in  conformity  with  their  oaths, 
had  refused  to  submit  to  this  usurper,  had  been  driven 
forth  from  their  quiet  cloisters  and  gardens,  to  die  of 
want  or  to  live  on  charity.  But  the  day  of  redress 
and  retribution  speedily  came.  The  intruders  were 
ejected  :  the  venerable  House  was  again  inhabited  by 
its  old  inmates :  learning  flourished  under  the  rule  of 
the  wise  and  virtuous  Hough ;  and  with  learning  was 
united  a  mild  and  liberal  spirit  too  often  wanting  in 
the  princely  colleges  of  Oxford.  In  consequence  of 
the  troubles  through  which  the  society  had  passed, 
there  had  been  no  valid   election  of  new  members 


132  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

during  the  year  1688.  In  1689,  therefore,  there  was 
twice  the  ordinary  number  of  vacancies ;  and  thus 
Dr.  Lancaster  found  it  easy  to  procure  for  his  young 
friend  admittance  to  the  advantages  of  a  foundation 
then  generally  esteemed  the  wealthiest  in  Europe. 

At  Magdalene  Addison  resided  during  ten  years. 
He  was,  at  first,  one  of  those  scholars  who  are  called 
Demies,  but  was  subsequently  elected  a  fellow.  His 
college  is  still  proud  of  his  name :  his  portrait  still 
hangs  in  the  hall ;  and  strangers  are  still  told  that  his 
favorite  walk  was  under  the  elms  which  fringe  the 
meadow  on  the  banks  of  the  Cherwell.  It  is  said, 
and  is  highly  probable,  that  he  was  distinguished 
among  his  fellow-students  by  the  delicacy  of  his  feel- 
ings, by  the  shyness  of  his  manners,  and  by  the 
assiduity  with  which  he  often  prolonged  his  studies 
far  into  the  night.  It  is  certain  that  his  reputation 
for  ability  and  learning  stood  high.  Many  years 
later,  the  ancient  doctors  of  Magdalene  continued  to 
talk  in  their  common  room  of  his  boyish  composi- 
tions, and  expressed  their  sorrow  that  no  copy  of 
exercises  so  remarkable  had  been  preserved. 

It  is  proper,  however,  to  remark  that  Miss  Aikin 
has  committed  the  error,  very  pardonable  in  a  lady, 
of  overrating  Addison's  classical  attainments.  In 
one  department  of  learning,  indeed,  his  proficiency 
was  such  as  it  is  hardly  possible  to  overrate.  His 
knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets,  from  Lucretius  and 
Catullus  down  to  Claudian  and  Prudentius,  was  sin- 
gularly exact  and  profound.  He  understood  them 
thoroughly,  entered  into  their  spirit,  and  had  the 
finest  and  most  discriminating  perception  of  all  their 
peculiarities  of  style  and  melody  ;  nay,  he  copied  their 
manner  with  admirable  skill,  and  surpassed,  we  think, 


ADDISON  133 

all  their  British  imitators  who  had  preceded  him, 
Buchanan  and  Milton  alone  excepted.  This  is  high 
praise ;  and  beyond  this  we  cannot  with  justice  go. 
It  is  clear  that  Addison's  serious  attention  during  his 
residence  at  the  university  was  almost  entirely  con- 
centrated on  Latin  poetry,  and  that,  if  he  did  not 
wholly  neglect  other  provinces  of  ancient  literature, 
he  vouchsafed  to  them  only  a  cursory  glance.  He 
does  not  appear  to  have  attained  more  than  an  ordi- 
nary acquaintance  with  the  political  and  moral  writers 
of  Rome  ;  nor  was  his  own  Latin  prose  by  any  means 
equal  to  his  Latin  verse.  His  knowledge  of  Greek, 
though  doubtless  such  as  was,  in  his  time,  thought 
respectable  at  Oxford,  was  evidently  less  than  that 
which  many  lads  now  carry  away  every  year  from' 
Eton  and  Rugby.  A  minute  examination  of  his 
works,  if  we  had  time  to  make  such  an  examination, 
would  fully  bear  out  these  remarks.  We  will  briefly 
advert  to  a  few  of  the  facts  on  which  our  judgment  is 
grounded. 

Great  praise  is  due  to  the  Notes  which  Addison 
appended  to  his  version  of  the  second  and  third 
books  of  the  Metamorphoses.  Yet  those  notes,  while 
they  show  him  to  have  been,  in  his  own  domain,  an 
accomplished  scholar,  show  also  how  confined  that 
domain  was.  They  are  rich  in  apposite  references 
to  Virgil,  Statius,  and  Claudian ;  but  they  contain  not 
a  single  illustration  drawn  from  the  Greek  poets. 
Now,  if,  in  the  whole  compass  of  Latin  literature, 
there  be  a  passage  which  stands  in  need  of  illustra- 
tion drawn  from  the  Greek  poets,  it  is  the  story  of 
Pentheus  in  the  third  book  of  the  Metamorphoses. 
Ovid  was  indebted  for  that  story  to  Euripides  and 
Theocritus,  both  of  whom  he  has  sometimes  followed 


134  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

minutely.  But  neither  to  Euripides  nor  to  Theocritus 
does  Addison  make  the  faintest  allusion ;  and  we, 
therefore,  believe  that  we  do  not  wrong  him  by  sup- 
posing that  he  had  little  or  no  knowledge  of  their 
works. 

His  travels  in  Italy,  again,  abound  with  classical 
quotations  happily  introduced  ;  but  scarcely  one  of 
those  quotations  is  in  prose.  He  draws  more  illustra- 
tions from  Ausonius  and  Manilius  than  from  Cicero. 
Even  his  notions  of  the  political  and  military  affairs  of 
the  Romans  seem  to  be  derived  from  poets  and  poet- 
asters. Spots  made  memorable  by  events  which  have 
changed  the  destinies  of  the  world,  and  which  have 
been  worthily  recorded  by  great  historians,  bring  to 
his  mind  only  scraps  of  some  ancient  versifier.  In 
the  gorge  of  the  Apennines  he  naturally  remembers 
the  hardships  which  Hannibal's  army  endured,  and 
proceeds  to  cite,  not  the  authentic  narrative  of  Polyb- 
ius,  not  the  picturesque  narrative  of  Livy,  but  the 
languid  hexameters  of  Silius  Italicus.  On  the  banks 
of  the  Rubicon  he  never  thinks  of  Plutarch's  lively 
description,  or  of  the  stern  conciseness  of  the  Com- 
mentaries, or  of  those  letters  to  Atticus  which  so 
forcibly  express  the  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  in 
a  sensitive  mind  at  a  great  crisis.  His  only  authority 
for  the  events  of  the  civil  war  is  Lucan. 

All  the  best  ancient  works  of  art  at  Rome  and 
Florence  are  Greek.  Addison  saw  them,  however, 
without  recalling  one  single  verse  of  Pindar,  of  Callim- 
achus,  or  of  the  Attic  dramatists ;  but  they  brought 
to  his  recollection  innumerable  passages  of  Horace, 
Juvenal,  Statius  and  Ovid. 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  Treatise  on  Medals. 
In  that   pleasing  work  we  find  about  three  hundred 


ADDISON.  135 

passages  extracted  with  great  judgment  from  the 
Roman  poets ;  but  we  do  not  recollect  a  single  pas- 
sage taken  from  any  Roman  orator  or  historian ;  and 
we  are  confident  that  not  a  line  is  quoted  from  any 
Greek  writer.  No  person,  who  had  derived  all  his 
information  on  the  subject  of  medals  from  Addison, 
would  suspect  that  the  Greek  coins  were  in  historical 
interest  equal,  and  in  beauty  of  execution  far  supe- 
rior, to  those  of  Rome. 

If  it  were  necessary  to  find  any  further  proof  that 
Addison's  classical  knowledge  was  confined  within 
narrow  limits,  that  proof  would  be  furnished  by  his 
Essay  on  the  Evidences  of  Christianity.  The  Roman 
poets  throw  little  or  no  light  on  the  literary  and  his- 
torical questions  which  he  is  under  the  necessity  of 
examining  in  that  Essay.  He  is,  therefore,  left  com- 
pletely in  the  dark ;  and  it  is  melancholy  to  see  how 
helplessly  he  gropes  his  way  from  blunder  to  blunder. 
He  assigns,  as  grounds  for  his  religious  belief,  stories 
as  absurd  as  that  of  the  Cock-Lane  ghost,  and  forg- 
eries as  rank  as  Ireland's  Vortigern,  puts  faith  in  the 
lie  about  the  Thundering  Legion,  is  convinced  that 
Tiberius  moved  the  senate  to  admit  Jesus  among  the 
gods,  and  pronounces  the  letter  of  Agbarus  King  of 
Edessa  to  be  a  record  of  great  authority.  Nor  were 
these  errors  the  effects  of  superstition ;  for  to  super- 
stition Addison  was  by  no  means  prone.  The  truth 
is  that  he  was  writing  about  what  he  did  not  under- 
stand. 

Miss  Aikin  has  discovered  a  letter  from  which  it 
appears  that,  while  Addison  resided  at  Oxford,  he 
was  one  of  the  several  writers  whom  the  booksellers 
engaged  to  make  an  English  version  of  Herodotus  ; 
and  she  infers  that  he  must  have  been  a  good  Greek 


I36  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

scholar.  We  can  allow  very  little  weight  to  this 
argument,  when  we  consider  that  his  fellow-laborers 
were  to  have  been  Boyle  and  Blackmore.  Boyle  is 
remembered  chiefly  as  the  nominal  author  of  the 
worst  book  on  Greek  history  and  philology  that  ever 
was  printed ;  and  this  book,  bad  as  it  is,  Boyle  was 
unable  to  produce  without  help.  Of  Blackmore's 
attainments  in  the  ancient  tongues,  it  may  be  suffi- 
cient to  say  that,  in  his  prose  he  has  confounded  an 
aphorism  with  an  apophthegm,  and  that  when,  in  his 
verse,  he  treats  of  classical  subjects,  his  habit  is  to 
regale  his  readers  with  four  false  quantities  to  a  page. 

It  is  probable  that  the  classical  acquirements  of 
Addison  were  of  as  much  service  to  him  as  if  they 
had  been  more  extensive.  The  world  generally  gives 
its  admiration,  not  to  the  man  who  does  what  nobody 
else  even  attempts  to  do,  but  to  the  man  who  does 
best  what  multitudes  do  well.  Bentley  was  so  immeas- 
urably superior  to  all  the  other  scholars  of  his  time 
that  few  among  them  could  discover  his  superiority. 
But  the  accomplishment  in  which  Addison  excelled 
his  contemporaries  was  then,  as  it  is  now.  highly  valued 
and  assiduously  cultivated  at  all  English  seats  of  learn- 
ing. Everybody  who  had  been  at  a  public  school 
had  written  Latin  verses  ;  many  had  written  such 
verses  with  tolerable  success,  and  were  quite  able  to 
appreciate,  though  by  no  means  able  to  rival,  the  skill 
with  which  Addison  imitated  Virgil.  His  lines  on 
the  Barometer  and  the  Bowling  Green  were  applauded 
by  hundreds,  to  whom  the  Dissertation  on  the  Epis- 
tles of  Phalaris  was  as  unintelligible  as  the  hiero- 
glyphics on  an  obelisk. 

Purity  of  style,  and  an  easy  flow  of  numbers,  are 
common  to  all  Addison's  Latin  poems.     Our  favorite 


ADDISON.  I37 

piece  is  the  Battle  of  the  Cranes  and  Pigmies  ;  for  in 
that  piece  we  discern  a  gleam  of  the  fancy  and  humor 
which  many  years  later  enlivened  thousands  of  break- 
fast tables.  Swift  boasted  that  he  was  never  known  to 
steal  a  hint ;  and  he  certainly  owed  as  little  to  his 
predecessors  as  any  modern  writer.  Yet  we  cannot 
help  suspecting  that  he  borrowed,  perhaps  uncon- 
sciously, one  of  the  happiest  touches  in  his  Voyages 
to  Lilliput  from  Addison's  verses.  Let  our  readers 
judge. 

"  The  Emperor,11  says  Gulliver,  "  is  taller  by  about 
the  breadth  of  my  nail  than  any  of  his  court,  which 
alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into  the  beholders.1' 

About  thirty  years  before  Gulliver's  Travels  ap- 
peared, Addison  wrote  these  lines  : 

"Jamque  acies  inter  medias  sese  arduus  infert 
Pygmeadum  ductor,  qui,  majestate  verendus, 
Incessuque  gravis,  reliquos  supereminet  omnes 
Mole  gigantea,  mediamque  exsurgit  in  ulnam." 

The  Latin  poems  of  Addison  were  greatly  and  justly 
admired  both  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  before  his 
name  had  ever  been  heard  by  the  wits  who  thronged  the 
coffee-houses  round  Drury-Lane  theatre.  In  his 
twenty-second  year,  he  ventured  to  appear  before  the 
public  as  a  writer  of  English  verse.  He  addressed  some 
complimentary  lines  to  Dryden,  who,  after  many  tri- 
umphs and  many  reverses,  had  at  length  reached  a 
secure  and  lonely  eminence  among  the  literary  men  of 
that  age.  Dryden  appears  to  have  been  much  grati- 
fied by  the  young  scholar's  praise  ;  and  an  interchange 
of  civilities  and  good  offices  followed.  Addison  was 
probably  introduced  by  Dryden  to  Congreve,  and 
was  certainly  presented  by  Congreve  to  Charles  Mon- 


138  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

tague,  who  was  then  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and 
leader  of  the  Whig  party  in  the  House  of  Commons. 

At  this  time  Addison  seemed  inclined  to  devote 
himself  to  poetry.  He  published  a  translation  of  part 
of  the  fourth  Georgic,  Lines  to  King  William,  and  other 
performances  of  equal  value,  that  is  to  say,  of  no  value 
at  all.  But  in  those  days  the  public  was  in  the  habit 
of  receiving  with  applause  pieces  which  would  now 
have  little  chance  of  obtaining  the  Newdigate  prize 
or  the  Seatonian  prize.  And  the  reason  is  obvious. 
The  heroic  couplet  was  then  the  favorite  measure. 
The  art  of  arranging  wrords  in  that  measure,  so  that 
the  lines  may  flow  smoothly,  that  the  accents  may  fall 
correctly,  that  the  rhymes  may  strike  the  ear  strongly, 
and  that  there  may  be  a  pause  at  the  end  of  every 
distich,  is  an  art  as  mechanical  as  that  of  mending  a 
kettle  or  shoeing  a  horse,  and  may  be  learned  by  any 
human  being  who  has  sense  enough  to  learn.  But, 
like  other  mechanical  arts,  it  was  gradually  improved 
by  means  of  many  experiments  and  many  failures.  It 
was  reserved  for  Pope  to  discover  the  trick,  to  make 
himself  complete  master  of  it,  and  to  teach  it  to  every- 
body else.  From  the  time  when  his  Pastorals  ap- 
peared, heroic  versification  became  matter  of  rule  and 
compass ;  and,  before  long,  all  artists  were  on  a  level. 
Hundreds  of  dunces  who  never  blundered  on  one  happy 
thought  or  expression  were  able  to  write  reams  of 
couplets  which,  as  far  as  euphony  was  concerned, 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  those  of  Pope  himself, 
and  which  very  clever  writers  of  the  reign  of  Charles 
the  Second,  Rochester,  for  example,  or  Marvel,  or  Old- 
ham, would  have  contemplated  with  admiring  despair. 

Ben  Jonson  was  a  great  man,  Hoole  a  very  small 
man.      But  Hoole,  coming  after  Pope,  had  learned 


ADDISON.  1 39 

how  to  manufacture  decasyllable  verses,  and  poured 
them  forth  by  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands,  all 
as  well  turned,  as  smooth,  and  as  like  each  other  as 
the  blocks  which  have  passed  through  Mr.  Brunei's 
mill  in  the  dockyard  at  Portsmouth.  Ben's  heroic 
couplets  resemble  blocks  rudely  hewn  out  by  an  un- 
practised hand  with  a  blunt  hatchet.  Take  as  a 
specimen  his  translation  of  a  celebrated  passage  in 
the  ^Eneid : 

"  This  child  our  parent  earth,  stirred  up  with  spite 
Of  all  the  gods,  brought  forth,  and,  as  some  write, 
She  was  last  sister  of  that  giant  race 
That  sought  to  scale  Jove's  court,  right  swift  of  pace, 
And  swifter  far  of  wing,  a  monster  vast 
And  dreadful.     Look,  how  many  plumes  are  placed 
On  her  huge  corpse,  so  many  waking  eyes 
Stick  underneath,  and,  which  may  stranger  rise 
In  the  report,  as  many  tongues  she  wears." 

Compare  with  these  jagged  misshapen  distichs  the 
neat  fabric  which  Hoole's  machine  produces  in  un- 
limited abundance.  We  take  the  first  lines  on  which 
we  open  in  his  version  of  Tasso.  They  are  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  the  rest : 

"  O  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  whose  steps  are  led, 
By  choice  or  fate,  these  lonely  shores  to  tread, 
No  greater  wonders  east  or  west  can  boast 
Than  yon  small  island  on  the  pleasing  coast. 
If  e'er  thy  sight  would  blissful  scenes  explore, 
The  current  pass,  and  seek  the  further  shore." 

Ever  since  the  time  of  Pope  there  has  been  a  glut 
of  lines  of  this  sort,  and  we  are  now  as  little  disposed 
to  admire  a  man  for  being  able  to  write  them,  as  for 
being  able  to  write  his  name.  But  in  the  days  of 
William  the  Third  such  versification  was  rare ;  and  a 


140  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

rhymer  who  had  any  skill  in  it  passed  for  a  great  poet, 
just  as  in  the  dark  ages  a  person  who  could  write  his 
name  passed  for  a  great  clerk.  Accordingly,  Duke, 
Stepney,  Granville.  Walsh,  and  others,  whose  only 
title  to  fame  was  that  they  said  in  tolerable  metre 
what  might  have  been  as  well  said  in  prose,  or  what 
was  not  worth  saying  at  all,  were  honored  with  marks 
of  distinction  which  ought  to  be  reserved  for  genius. 
With  these  Addison  must  have  ranked,  if  he  had  not 
earned  true  and  lasting  glory  by  performances  which 
very  little  resembled  his  juvenile  poems. 

Dryden  was  now  busied  with  Virgil,  and  obtained 
from  Addison  a  critical  preface  to  the  Georgics.  In 
return  for  this  service,  and  for  other  services  of  the 
same  kind,  the  veteran  poet,  in  the  postscript  to  the 
translation  of  the  yEneid,  complimented  his  young 
friend  with  great  liberality,  and  indeed  with  more 
liberality  than  sincerity.  He  affected  to  be  afraid 
that  his  own  performance  would  not  sustain  a  com- 
parison with  the  version  of  the  fourth  Georgic,  by 
"  the  most  ingenious  Mr.  Addison  of  Oxford.''1  "After 
his  bees,'1  added  Dryden,  "  my  latter  swarm  is  scarcely 
worth  the  hiving.1' 

The  time  had  now  arrived  when  it  was  necessary  for 
Addison  to  choose  a  calling.  Everything  seemed  to 
point  his  course  towards  the  clerical  profession.  His 
habits  were  regular,  his  opinions  orthodox.  His  col- 
lege had  large  ecclesiastical  preferment  in  its  gift,  and 
boasts  that  it  has  given  at  least  one  bishop  to  almost 
every  see  in  England.  Dr.  Lancelot  Addison  held  an 
honorable  place  in  the  Church,  and  had  set  his  heart 
on  seeing  his  son  a  clergyman.  It  is  clear,  from  some 
expressions  in  the  young  man's  rhymes,  that  his  inten- 
tion was  to  take  orders.     But  Charles  Montague  inter- 


ADDISON.  141 

fered.  Montague  had  first  brought  himself  into  notice 
by  verses,  well  timed  and  not  contemptibly  written, 
but  never,  we  think,  rising  above  mediocrity.  For- 
tunately for  himself  and  for  his  country,  he  early 
quitted  poetry,  in  which  he  could  never  have  attained  a 
rank  as  high  as  that  of  Dorset  or  Rochester,  and  turned 
his  mind  to  official  and  parliamentary  business.  It  is 
written  that  the  ingenious  person  who  undertook  to 
instruct  Rasselas,  prince  of  Abyssinia,  in  the  art  of 
flying,  ascended  an  eminence,  waved  his  wings,  sprang 
into  the  air,  and  instantly  dropped  into  the  lake.  But 
it  is  added  that  the  wings,  which  were  unable  to  sup- 
port him  through  the  sky,  bore  him  up  effectually  as 
soon  as  he  was  in  the  water.  This  is  no  bad  type 
of  the  fate  of  Charles  Montague,  and  of  men  like  him. 
When  he  attempted  to  soar  into  the  regions  of  poeti- 
cal invention,  he  altogether  failed ;  but,  as  soon  as  he  Vs 
had  descended  from  that  ethereal  elevation  into  a  ' 
lower  and  grosser  element,  his  talents  instantly  raised 
him  above  the  mass.  He  became  a  distinguished 
financier,  debater,  courtier,  and  party  leader.  He  still 
retained  his  fondness  for  the  pursuits  of  his  early  days  ; 
but  he  showed  that  fondness  not  by  wearying  the  pub- 
lic with  his  own  feeble  performances,  but  by  discover- 
ing and  encouraging  literary  excellence  in  others.  A 
crowd  of  wits  and  poets,  who  would  easily  have  van- 
quished him  as  a  competitor,  revered  him  as  a  judge 
and  a  patron.  In  his  plans  for  the  encouragement 
of  learning,  he  was  cordially  supported  by  the  ablest 
and  most  virtuous  of  his  colleagues,  Lord  Chancellor 
Somers.  Though  both  these  great  statesmen  had  a 
sincere  love  of  letters,  it  was  not  solely  from  a  love 
of  letters  that  they  were  desirous  to  enlist  youths 
of  high  intellectual  quajifi cations  in    the  public  ser 


vJ 


142  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

vice.  The  Revolution  had  altered  the  whole  system 
of  government.  Before  that  event  the  press  had  been 
controlled  by  censors,  and  the  Parliament  had  sat 
only  two  months  in  eight  years.  Now  the  press  was 
free,  and  had  begun  to  exercise  unprecedented  influ- 
ence on  the  public  mind.  Parliament  met  annually 
and  sat  long.  The  chief  power  in  the  State  had 
passed  to  the  House  of  Commons.  At  such  a  con- 
juncture, it  was  natural  that  literary  and  oratorical 
talents  should  rise  in  value.  There  was  danger  that 
a  Government  which  neglected  such  talents  might  be 
subverted  by  them.  It  was,  therefore,  a  profound  and 
enlightened  policy  which  led  Montague  and  Somers 
to  attach  such  talents  to  the  Whig  party,  by  the 
strongest  ties  both  of  interest  and  of  gratitude. 

It  is  remarkable  that  in  a  neighboring  country,  we 
have  recently  seen  similar  effects  follow  from  similar 
causes.  The  revolution  of  July,  1830,  established 
representative  government  in  France.  The  men  of 
letters  instantly  rose  to  the  highest  importance  in  the 
state.  At  the  present  moment  most  of  the  persons 
whom  we  see  at  the  head  both  of  the  Administration 
and  of  the  Opposition,  have  been  Professors,  Histo- 
rians, Journalists,  Poets.  The  influence  of  the  liter- 
ary class  in  England,  during  the  generations  which 
followed  the  Revolution,  was  great,  but  by  no  means 
so  great  as  it  has  lately  been  in  France.  For,  in 
England,  the  aristocracy  of  intellect  had  to  contend 
with  a  powerful  and  deeply  rooted  aristocracy  of  a 
very  different  kind.  France  had  no  Somersets  and 
Shrewsburies  to  keep  down  her  Addisons  and  Priors. 

It  was  in  the  year  1699,  when  Addison  had  just 
completed  his  twenty-seventh  year,  that  the  course  of 
his  life  was  finally  determined.     Both  the  great  chiefs 


ADDISON.  I43 

of  the  Ministry  were  kindly  disposed  towards  him. 
In  political  opinions  he  already  was  what  he  continued 
to  be  through  life,  a  firm,  though  a  moderate  Whig. 
He  had  addressed  the  most  polished  and  vigorous 
of  his  early  English  lines  to  Somers,  and  had  dedi- 
cated to  Montague  a  Latin  poem,  truly  Virgilian,  both 
in  style  and  rhythm,  on  the  peace  of  Ryswick.  The 
wish  of  the  young  poet's  great  friends  was,  it  should 
seem,  to  employ  him  in  the  service  of  the  crown 
abroad.  But  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  French 
language  was  a  qualification  indispensable  to  a  diplo- 
matist ;  and  this  qualification  Addison  had  not  ac- 
quired. It  was,  therefore,  thought  desirable  that  he 
should  pass  some  time  on  the  Continent  in  preparing 
himself  for  official  employment.  His  own  means 
were  not  such  as  would  enable  him  to  travel :  but  a 
pension  of  three  hundred  pounds  a  year  was  procured 
for  him  by  the  interest  of  the  Lord  Chancellor.  It 
seems  to  have  been  apprehended  that  some  difficulty 
might  be  started  by  the  rulers  of  Magdalene  College. 
But  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  wrote  in  the 
strongest  terms  to  Hough.  The  State  —  such  was 
the  purport  of  Montague's  letter  —  could  not,  at  that 
time,  spare  to  the  Church  such  a  man  as  Addison. 
Too  many  high  civil  posts  were  already  occupied  by 
adventurers,  who,  destitute  of  every  liberal  art  and 
sentiment,  at  once  pillaged  and  disgraced  the  coun- 
try which  they  pretended  to  serve.  It  had  become 
necessary  to  recruit  for  the  public  service  from  a  very 
different  class,  from  that  class  of  which  Addison  was 
the  representative.  The  close  of  the  Minister's  letter 
was  remarkable.  "  I  am  called,"  he  said,  "  an  enemy 
of  the  Church.  But  I  will  never  do  it  any  other 
injury  than  keeping  Mr.  Addison  out  of  it." 


144  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

This  interference  was  successful;  and,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1699,  Addison,  made  a  rich  man  by  his  pen- 
sion, and  still  retaining  his  fellowship,  quitted  his 
beloved  Oxford,  and  set  out  on  his  travels.  He 
crossed  from  Dover  to  Calais,  proceeded  to  Paris, 
and  was  received  there  with  great  kindness  and 
politeness  by  a  kinsman  of  his  friend  Montague, 
Charles  Earl  of  Manchester,  who  had  just  been  ap- 
pointed Ambassador  to  the  Court  of  France.  The 
Countess,  a  Whig  and  a  toast,  was  probably  as 
gracious  as  her  lord ;  for  Addison  long  retained  an 
agreeable  recollection  of  the  impression  which  she 
at  this  time  made  on  him,  and,  in  some  lively  lines 
written  on  the  glasses  of  the  Kit  Cat  Club,  described 
the  envy  which  her  cheeks,  glowing  with  the  genuine 
bloom  of  England,  had  excited  among  the  painted 
beauties  of  Versailles. 

Lewis  the  Fourteenth  was  at  this  time  expiating  the 
vices  of  his  youth  by  a  devotion  which  had  no  root 
in  reason,  and  bore  no  fruit  of  charity.  The  servile 
literature  of  France  had  changed  its  character  to  suit 
the  changed  character  of  the  prince.  No  book  ap- 
peared that  had  not  an  air  of  sanctity.  Racine,  who 
was  just  dead,  had  passed  the  close  of  his  life  in 
writing  sacred  dramas  ;  and  Dacier  was  seeking  for 
the  Athanasian  mysteries  in  Plato.  Addison  de- 
scribed this  state  of  things  in  a  short  but  lively 
and  graceful  letter  to  Montague.  Another  letter, 
written  about  the  same  time  to  the  Lord  Chancellor, 
conveyed  the  strongest  assurances  of  gratitude  and 
attachment.  "The  only  return  I  can  make  to  your 
Lordship,"  said  Addison,  "  will  be  to  apply  myself 
entirely  to  my  business.11  With  this  view  he  quitted 
Paris  and  repaired  to  Blois,  a  place  where  it  was  sup- 


ADDISON.  I45 

posed  that  the  French  language  was  spoken  in  its 
highest  purity,  and  where  not  a  single  Englishman 
could  be  found.  Here  he  passed  some  months  pleas- 
antly and  profitably.  Of  his  way  of  life  at  Blois,  one 
of  his  associates,  an  Abbe  named  Philippeaux,  gave 
an  account  to  Joseph  Spence.  If  this  account  is  to 
be  trusted,  Addison  studied  much,  mused  much,  talked 
little,  had  fits  of  absence,  and  either  had  no  love 
affairs,  or  was  too  discreet  to  confide  them  to  the 
Abbe.  A  man  who,  even  when  surrounded  by  fellow- 
countrymen  and  fellow-students,  had  always  been  re- 
markably shy  and  silent,  was  not  likely  to  be  loquacious 
in  a  foreign  tongue  and  among  foreign  companions. 
But  it  is  clear  from  Addison's  letters,  some  of  which 
were  long  after  published  in  the  Guardian,  that,  while 
he  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  his  own  meditations, 
he  was  really  observing  French  society  with  that  keen 
and  sly,  yet  not  ill-natured  side  glance,  which  was 
peculiarly  his  own. 

From  Blois  he  returned  to  Paris ;  and,  having  now 
mastered  the  French  language,  found  great  pleasure 
in  the  society  of  French  philosophers  and  poets.  He 
gave  an  account,  in  a  letter  to  Bishop  Hough,  of  two 
highly  interesting  conversations,  one  with  Malbranche, 
the  other  with  Boileau.  Malbranche  expressed  great 
partiality  for  the  English,  and  extolled  the  genius  ot 
Newton,  but  shook  his  head  when  Hobbes  was  men- 
tioned, and  was  indeed  so  unjust  as  to  call  the  author 
of  the  Leviathan  a  poor  silly  creature.  Addison's 
modesty  restrained  him  from  fully  relating,  in  his  let- 
ter, the  circumstances  of  his  introduction  to  Boileau. 
Boileau,  having  survived  the  friends  and  rivals  of  his 
youth,  old,  deaf,  and  melancholy,  lived  in  retirement, 
seldom  went  either  to  Court  or  to  the  Academy,  and 


I46  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

was  almost  inaccessible  to  strangers.  Of  the  English, 
and  of  English  literature  he  knew  nothing.  He  had 
hardly  heard  the  name  of  Dryden.  Some  of  our 
countrymen,  in  the  warmth  of  their  patriotism,  have 
asserted  that  this  ignorance  must  have  been  affected. 
We  own  that  we  see  no  ground  for  such  a  supposi- 
tion. English  literature  was  to  the  French  of  the 
age  of  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  what  German  literature 
was  to  our  own  grandfathers.  Very  few,  we  suspect, 
of  the  accomplished  men  who,  sixty  or  seventy  years 
ago,  used  to  dine  in  Leicester  Square  with  Sir  Joshua, 
or  at  Streatham  with  Mrs.  Thrale,  had  the  slightest 
notion  that  Wi eland  was  one  of  the  first  wits  and 
poets,  and  Lessin&_  beyond_all  dispute,  the  first  critic 
in_Europe.     Boileau   knew  just   as  "Itttie  abouF^the 

'aradise  Lost,  and  about  Absalom  and  Achitophel ; 

>ut  he  had  read  Addison's  Latin  poems,  and  admired 
them  greatly.  They  had  given  him,  he  said,  quite  a 
new  notion  of  the  state  of  learning  and  taste  among 
the  English.  Johnson  will  have  it  that  these  praises 
were  insincere.  "  Nothing,'1  says  he,  "  is  better  known 
of  Boileau  than  that  he  had  an  injudicious  and  peevish 
contempt  of  modern  Latin ;  and  therefore  his  profes- 
sion of  regard  was  probably  the  effect  of  his  civility 
rather  than  approbation."  Now,  nothing  is  better 
known  of  Boileau  than  that  he  was  singularly  sparing 
of  compliments.  We  do  not  remember  that  either 
friendship  or  fear  ever  induced  him  to  bestow  praise 
on  any  composition  which  he  did  not  approve.  On 
literary  questions,  his  caustic,  disdainful,  and  self- 
confident  spirit  rebelled  against  that  authority  to 
which  everything  else  in  France  bowed  down.  He 
had  the  spirit  to  tell  Lewis  the  Fourteenth  firmly  and 
even  rudely,  that    his   Majesty  knew  nothing   about 


ADDISON.  I47 

poetry,  and  admired  verses  which  were  detestable. 
What  was  there  in  Addison's  position  that  could 
induce  the  satirist,  whose  stern  and  fastidious  temper 
had  been  the  dread  of  two  generations,  to  turn  syco- 
phant for  the  first  and  last  time  ?  Nor  was  Boileau's 
contempt  of  modern  Latin  either  injudicious  or  pee- 
vish. He  thought,  indeed,  that  no  poem  of  the  first 
order  would  ever  be  written  in  a  dead  language.  And 
did  he  think  amiss?  Has  not  the  experience  of  cen- 
turies confirmed  his  opinion?  Boileau  also  thought 
it  probable  that,  in  the  best  modern  Latin,  a  writer 
of  the  Augustan  age  would  have  detected  ludicrous 
improprieties.  And  who  can  think  otherwise?  What 
modern  scholar  can  honestly  declare  that  he  sees  the 
smallest  impurity  in  the  style  of  Livy  ?  Yet  is  it  not 
certain  that,  in  the  style  of  Livy,  Pollio,  whose  taste 
had  been  formed  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  detected 
the  inelegant  idiom  of  the  Po?  Has  any  modern 
scholar  understood  Latin  better  than  Frederic  the 
Great  understood  French?  Yet  is  it  not  notorious 
that  Frederic  the  Great,  after  reading,  speaking,  writ- 
ing French,  and  nothing  but  French,  during  more 
than  half  a  century,  after  unlearning  his  mother 
tongue  in  order  to  learn  French,  after  living  familiarly 
during  many  years  with  French  associates,  could  not, 
to  the  last,  compose  in  French,  without  imminent 
risk  of  committing  some  mistake  which  would  have 
moved  a  smile  in  the  literary  circles  of  Paris  ?  Do  we 
believe  that  Erasmus  and  Fracastorius  wrote  Latin  as 
well  as  Dr.  Robertson  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  wrote 
English?  And  are  there  not  in  the  Dissertation  on 
India,  the  last  of  Dr.  Robertson's  works,  in  Waverley, 
in  Marmion,  Scotticisms  at  which  a  London  appren- 
tice would  laugh?     But  does  it  follow,  because  we 


148  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

think  thus,  that  we  can  find  nothing  to  admire  in  the 
noble  alcaics  of  Gray,  or  in  the  playful  elegiacs  of 
Vincent  Bourne?  Surely  not.  Nor  was  Boileau  so 
ignorant  or  tasteless  as  to  be  incapable  of  appreciat- 
ing good  modern  Latin.  In  the  very  letter  to  which 
Johnson  alludes,  Boileau  says  —  "  Ne  croyez  pas  pour- 
tant  que  je  veuille  par  la  blamer  les  vers  Latins  que 
vous  ufavez  envoyes  d\in  de  vos  illustres  academiciens. 
Je  les  ai  trouves  fort  beaux,  et  dignes  de  Vida  et  de 
Sannazar,  mais  non  pas  d'Horace  et  de  Virgile." 
Several  poems,  in  modern  Latin,  have  been  praised 
by  Boileau  quite  as  liberally  as  it  was  his  habit  to 
praise  anything.  He  says,  for  example,  of  the  Pere 
Fraguier's  epigrams,  that  Catullus  seems  to  have 
come  to  life  again.  But  the  best  proof  that  Boileau 
did  not  feel  the  undiscerning  contempt  for  modern 
Latin  verses  which  has  been  imputed  to  him,  is,  that 
he  wrote  and  published  Latin  verses  in  several  metres. 
Indeed  it  happens,  curiously  enough,  that  the  most 
severe  censure  ever  pronounced  by  him  on  modern 
Latin  is  conveyed  in  Latin  hexameters.  We  allude 
to  the  fragment  which  begins, — 

"  Quid  numeris  iterum  me  balbutire  Latinis, 
Longe  Alpes  citra  natum  de  patre  Sicambro, 
Musa,  jubes  ?  " 

For  these  reasons  we  feel  assured  that  the  praise 
which  Boileau  bestowed  on  the  Machince  Gesticalantes, 
and  the  Gerano-Pyg?nceo?nachia,  was  sincere.  He  cer- 
tainly opened  himself  to  Addison  with  a  freedom  which 
was  a  sure  indication  of  esteem.  Literature  was  the 
chief  subject  of  conversation.  The  old  man  talked  on 
his  favorite  theme  much  and  well,  indeed,  as  his  young 
Jiearer  thought,  incomparably  well.     Boileau  had  un- 


ADD  T SON.  I49 

-f 
doubtedly  some  of  the  qualities  of  a  great  critic.  He 
wanted  imagination  ;  but  he  had  strong  sense.  His 
literary  code  was  formed  on  narrow  principles  ;  but  in 
applying  it,  he  showed  great  judgment  and  penetration v 
In  mere  style,  abstracted  from  the  ideas  of  which  style 
is  the  garb,  his  taste  was  excellent.  He  was  well 
acquainted  with  the  great  Greek  writers  ;  and,  though 
unable  fully  to  appreciate  their  creative  genius,  admired 
the  majestic  simplicity  of  their  manner,  and  had  learned 
from  them  to  despise  bombast  and  tinsel.  It  is  easy, 
we  think,  to  discover  in  the  Spectator  and  the  Guar- 
dian, traces  of  the  influence,  in  part  salutary  and  in  part 
pernicious,  which  the  mind  of  Boileau  had  on  the  mind 
of  Addison. 

While  Addison  was  at  Paris,  an  event  took  place 
which  made  that  capital  a  disagreeable  residence  for 
an  Englishman  and  a  Whig.  Charles,  second  of  the 
name,  King  of  Spain,  died ;  and  bequeathed  his 
dominions  to  Philip,  Duke  of  Anjou,  a  younger  son 
of  the  Dauphin.  The  King  of  France,  in  direct 
violation  of  his  engagements,  both  with  Great  Britain 
and  with  the  States-General,  accepted  the  bequest  on 
behalf  of  his  grandson.  The  House  of  Bourbon  was 
at  the  summit  of  human  grandeur.  England  had  been 
outwitted,  and  found  herself  in  a  situation  at  once 
degrading  and  perilous.  The  people  of  France,  not 
presaging  the  calamities  by  which  they  were  destined 
to  expiate  the  perfidy  of  their  sovereign,  went  mad 
with  pride  and  delight.  Every  man  looked  as  if  a 
great  estate  had  just  been  left  him.  "The  French 
conversation,"  says  Addison,  "  begins  to  grow  insup- 
portable ;  that  which  was  before  the  vainest  nation  in 
the  world  is  now  worse  than  ever.1'  Sick  of  the  arro- 
gant exultation  of  the  Parisians,  and  probably  foresee 


I  50  LITERAR  Y  ESS  A  YS. 

ing  that  the  peace  between  France  and  England  could 
not  be  of  long  duration,  he  set  off  for  Italy. 

In  December,  1700,1  he  embarked  at  Marseilles. 
As  he  glided  along  the  Ligurian  coast,  he  was 
delighted  by  the  sight  of  myrtles  and  olive  trees, 
which  retained  their  verdure  under  the  winter  solstice. 
Soon,  however,  he  encountered  one  of  the  black  storms 
of  the  Mediterranean.  The  captain  of  the  ship  gave 
up  all  for  lost,  and  confessed  himself  to  a  capuchin 
who  happened  to  be  on  board.  The  English  heretic, 
in  the  meantime,  fortified  himself  against  the  terrors 
of  death  with  devotions  of  a  very  different  kind.  How 
strong  an  impression  this  perilous  voyage  made  on 
him,  appears  from  the  ode,  "  How  are  thy  servants 
blest.  O  Lord  ! "  which  was  long  after  published  in 
the  Spectator.  After  some  days  of  discomfort  and 
danger.  Addison  was  glad  to  land  at  Savona,  and  to 
make  his  way,  over  mountains  where  no  road  had  yet 
been  hewn  out  by  art,  to  the  city  of  Genoa. 

At  Genoa,  still  ruled  by  her  own  Doge,  and  by  the 
nobles  whose  names  were  inscribed  onher_j3ook  of 
Gold, .Addison  made  a  short ^tay^  HlTadmired  the 
narrow  streets  overhung  by  long  lines  of  towering 
palaces,  the  walls  rich  with  frescoes,  the  gorgeous 
temple  of  the  Annunciation,  and  the  tapestries  whereon 
were  recorded  the  long  glories  of  the  House  of  Doria. 
Thence  he  hastened  to  Milan,  where  he  contemplated 
the  Gothic  magnificence  of  the  cathedral  with  more 
wonder   than   pleasure.      He   passed   Lake    Benacus 


1  It  is  strange  that  Addison  should,  in  the  first  line  of  his  travels, 
have  misdated  his  departure  from  Marseilles  by  a  whole  year,  and  still 
more  strange  that  this  slip  of  the  pen,  which  throws  the  whole  narrative 
into  inextricable  confusion,  should  have  been  repeated  in  a  succession 
of  editions,  and  never  detected  by  Tickell  or  by  Hurd. 


ADDISON.  I  5  1 

tvhile  a  gale  was  blowing,  and  saw  the  waves  raging 
as  they  raged  when  Virgil  looked  upon  them.  At 
Venice,  then  the  gayest  spot  in  Europe,  the  traveller 
spent  the  Carnival,  the  gayest  season  of  the  year,  in 
the  midst  of  masques,  dances,  and  serenades.  Here 
he  was  at  once  diverted  and  provoked  by  the  absurd 
dramatic  pieces  which  then  disgraced  the  Italian  stage. 
To  one  of  those  pieces,  however,  he  was  indebted  for 
a  valuable  hint.  He  was  present  when  a  ridiculous 
play  on  the  death  of  Cato  was  performed.  Cato,  it 
seems,  was  in  love  with  a  daughter  of  Scipio.  The 
lady  had  given  her  heart  to  Caesar.  The  rejected  lover 
determined  to  destroy  himself.  He  appeared  seated 
in  his  library,  a  dagger  in  his  hand,  a  Plutarch  and  a 
Tasso  before  him  ;  and,  in  this  position,  he  pronounced 
a  soliloquy  before  he  struck  the  blow.  We  are  sur- 
prised that  so  remarkable  a  circumstance  as  this  should 
have  escaped  the  notice  of  all  Addison's  biographers. 
There  cannot,  we  conceive,  be  the  smallest  doubt  that 
this  scene,  in  spite  of  its  absurdities  and  anachronisms, 
struck  the  traveller's  imagination,  and  suggested  to 
him  the  thought  of  bringing  Cato  on  the  English 
stage.  It  is  well  known  that  about  this  time  he 
began  his  tragedy,  and  that  he  finished  the  first  four 
acts  before  he  returned  to  England. 

On  his  way  from  Venice  to  Rome,  he  was  drawn 
some  miles  out  of  the  beaten  road  by  a  wish  to  see 
the  smallest  independent  state  in  Europe.  On  a  rock 
where  the  snow  still  lay,  though  the  Italian  spring 
was  now  far  advanced,  was  perched  the  little  fortress 
of  San  Marino.  The  roads  which  led  to  the  secluded 
town  were  so  bad  that  few  travellers  had  ever  visited 
it,  and  none  had  ever  published  an  account  of  it. 
Addison  could  not  suppress  a  good-natured  smile  at 


152  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

the  simple  manners  and  institutions  of  this  singular 
community.  But  he  observed  with  the  exultation  of 
a  Whig,  that  the  rude  mountain  tract  which  formed 
the  territory  of  the  republic  swarmed  with  an  honest, 
healthy,  and  contented  peasantry,  while  the  rich  plain 
which  surrounded  the  metropolis  of  civil  and  spiritual 
tyranny  was  scarcely  less  desolate  than  the  uncleared 
wilds  of  America. 

At  Rome  Addison  remained  on  his  first  visit  only 
long  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  St.  Peter  's  and  of 
the  Pantheon.  His  haste  is  the  more  extraordinary 
because  the  Holy  Week  was  close  at  hand.  He  has 
given  no  hint  which  can  enable  us  to  pronounce  why 
he  chose  to  fly  from  a  spectacle  which  every  year 
allures  from  distant  regions  persons  of  far  less  taste 
and  sensibility  than  his.  Possibly,  travelling,  as  he 
did,  at  the  charge  of  a  Government  distinguished  by 
its  enmity  to  the  Church  of  Rome,  he  may  have 
thought  that  it  would  be  imprudent  in  him  to  assist  at 
the  most  magnificent  rite  of  that  Church.  Many  eyes 
would  be  upon  him ;  and  he  might  find  it  difficult  to 
behave  in  such  a  manner  as  to  give  offence  neither 
to  his  patrons  in  England,  nor  to  those  among  whom 
he  resided.  WThatever  his  motives  may  have  been, 
he  turned  his  back  on  the  most  august  and  affecting 
ceremony  which  is  known  among  men,  and  posted 
along  the  Appian  way  to  Naples. 

Naples  was  then  destitute  of  what  are  now,  per- 
haps, its  chief  attractions.  The  lovely  bay  and  the 
awful  mountain  were  indeed  there.  But  a  farmhouse 
stood  on  the  theatre  of  Herculaneum,  and  rows  of 
vines  grew  over  the  streets  of  Pompeii.  The  temples 
of  Paestum  had  not  indeed  been  hidden  from  the  eye 
of  man   by   any  great   convulsion   of   nature ;    but, 


ADDISON.  153 

strange  to  say.  their  existence  was  a  secret  even  to 
artists  and  antiquaries.  Though  situated  within  a 
few  hours1  journey  of  a  great  capital,  where  Salvator 
had  not  long  before  painted,  and  where  Vico  was 
then  lecturing,  those  noble  remains  were  as  little 
known  to  Europe  as  the  ruined  cities  overgrown  by 
the  forests  of  Yucatan.  What  was  to  be  seen  at 
Naples,  Addison  saw.  He  climbed  Vesuvius,  ex- 
plored the  tunnel  of  Posilipo,  and  wandered  among 
the  vines  and  almond  trees  of  Capreae.  But  neither 
the  wonders  of  nature,  nor  those  of  art,  could  so 
occupy  his  attention  as  to  prevent  him  from  noticing, 
though  cursorily,  the  abuses  of  the  Government  and 
the  misery  of  the  people.  The  great  kingdom  which 
had  just  descended  to  Philip  the  Fifth,  was  in  a  state 
of  paralytic  dotage.  Even  Castile  and  Aragon  were 
sunk  in  wretchedness.  Yet,  compared  with  the  Italian 
dependencies  of  the  Spanish  crown,  Castile  and  Aragon 
might  be  called  prosperous.  It  is  clear  that  all  the 
observations  which  Addison  made  in  Italy  tended  to 
confirm  him  in  the  political  opinions  which  he  had 
adopted  at  home.  To  the  last,  he  always  spoke  of 
foreign  travel  as  the  best  cure  for  Jacobitism.  In  his 
Freeholder,  the  Tory  foxhunter  asks  what  travelling 
is  good  for,  except  to  teach  a  man  to  jabber  French, 
and  to  talk  against  passive  obedience. 

From  Naples,  Addison  returned  to  Rome  by  sea, 
along  the  coast  which  his  favorite  Virgil  had  cele- 
brated. The  felucca  passed  the  headland  where  the 
oar  and  trumpet  were  placed  by  the  Trojan  adven- 
turers on  the  tomb  of  Misenus,  and  anchored  at  night 
under  the  shelter  of  the  fabled  promontory  of  Circe. 
The  voyage  ended  in  the  Tiber,  still  overhung  with 
dark  verdure,  and  still  turbid  with  yellow  sand,  as 


I  5  4  LITER  A  R  Y  ESS  A  VS. 

when  it  met  the  eyes  of  /Eneas.  From  the  ruined 
port  of  Ostia,  the  stranger  hurried  to  Rome ;  and 
at  Rome  he  remained  during  those  hot  and  sickly 
months  when,  even  in  the  Augustan  age,  all  who 
could  make  their  escape  fled  from  mad  dogs  and  from 
streets  black  with  funerals,  to  gather  the  first  figs  of 
the  season  in  the  country.  It  is  probable  that,  when 
he,  long  after,  poured  forth  in  verse  his  gratitude  to  the 
Providence  which  had  enabled  him  to  breathe  unhurt 
in  tainted  air,  he  was  thinking  of  the  August  and 
September  which  he  had  passed  at  Rome. 

It  was  not  till  the  latter  end  of  October  that  he 
tore  himself  away  from  the  masterpieces  of  ancient 
and  modern  art  which  are  collected  in  the  city  so  long 
the  mistress  of  the  world.  He  then  journeyed  north- 
ward, passed  through  Sienna,  and  for  a  moment  for- 
got his  prejudices  in  favor  of  classic  architecture  as 
he  looked  on  the  magnificent  cathedral.  At  Florence 
he  spent  some  days  with  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury, 
who,  cloyed  with  the  pleasures  of  ambition,  and  impa- 
tient of  its  pains,  fearing  both  parties,  and  loving 
neither,  had  determined  to  hide  in  an  Italian  retreat 
talents  and  accomplishments  which,  if  they  had  been 
united  with  fixed  principles  and  civil  courage,  might 
have  made  him  the  foremost  man  of  his  age.  These 
days,  we  are  told,  passed  pleasantly ;  and  we  can 
easily  believe  it.  For  Addison  was  a  delightful  com- 
panion when  he  was  at  his  ease  ;  and  the  Duke,  though 
he  seldom  forgot  that  he  was  a  Talbot,  had  the  invalu- 
able art  of  putting  at  ease  all  who  came  near  him. 

Addison  gave  some  time  to  Florence,  and  especially 
to  the  sculptures  in  the  Museum,  which  he  preferred 
even  to  those  of  the  Vatican.  He  then  pursued  his 
journey  through  a  country  in  which  the  ravages  of  the 


ADDISON.  1 5  5 

last  war  were  still  discernible,  and  in  which  all  men 
were  looking  forward  with  a  dread  to  a  still  fiercer 
conflict.  Eugene  had  already  descended  from  tRe 
Rhaetian  Alps,  to  dispute  with  Catinat  the  rich  plain 
of  Lombardy.  The  faithless  ruler  of  Savoy  was  still 
reckoned  among  the  allies  of  Lewis.  England  had 
not  yet  actually  declared  war  against  France ;  but 
Manchester  had  left  Paris  ;  and  the  negotiations  which 
produced  the  Grand  Alliance  against  the  House  of 
Bourbon  were  in  progress.  Under  such  circumstances, 
it  was  desirable  for  an  English  traveller  to  reach  neu- 
tral ground  without  delay.  Addison  resolved  to  cross 
Mont  Cenis.  It  was  December;  and  the  road  was 
very  different  from  that  which  now  reminds  the  stran- 
ger of  the  power  and  genius  of  Napoleon.  The  win- 
ter, however,  was  mild ;  and  the  passage  was,  for 
those  times,  easy.  To  this  journey  Addison  alluded 
when,  in  the  ode  which  we  have  already  quoted,  he 
said  that  for  him  the  Divine  goodness  had  warmed 
the  hoary  Alpine  hills. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  eternal  snow  that  he 
composed  his  Epistle  to  his  friend  Montague,  now 
Lord  Halifax.  That  Epistle,  once  widely  renowned, 
is  now  known  only  to  curious  readers,  and  will  hardly 
be  considered  by  those  to  whom  it  is  known  as  in  any 
perceptible  degree  heightening  Addison's  fame.  It  is, 
however,  decidedly  superior  to  any  English  composi- 
tion which  he  had  previously  published.  Nay,  we 
think  it  quite  as  good  as  any  poem  in  heroic  metre 
which  appeared  during  the  interval  between  the  death 
of  Dryden  and  the  publication  of  the  Essay  on  Criti- 
cism. It  contains  passages  as  good  as  the  second- 
rate  passages  of  Pope,  and  would  have  added  to  the 
reputation  of  Parnell  or  Prior. 


156  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

But,  whatever  be  the  literary  merits  or  defects  of 
the  Epistle,  it  undoubtedly  does  honor  to  the  prin- 
ciples and  spirit  of  the  author.  Halifax  had  now 
nothing  to  give.  He  had  fallen  from  power,  had  been 
held  up  to  obloquy,  had  been  impeached  by  the  House 
of  Commons,  and,  though  his  Peers  had  dismissed 
the  impeachment,  had,  as  it  seemed,  little  chance  of 
ever  again  filling  high  office.  The  Epistle,  written  at 
such  a  time,  is  one  among  many  proofs  that  there  was 
no  mixture  of  cowardice  or  meanness  in  the  suavity 
and  moderation  which  distinguished  Addison  from  all 
the  other  public  men  of  those  stormy  times. 

At  Geneva,  the  traveller  learned  that  a  partial 
change  of  ministry  had  taken  place  in  England,  and 
that  the  Earl  of  Manchester  had  become  Secretary  of 
State.  Manchester  exerted  himself  to  serve  his  young 
friend.  It  was  thought  advisable  that  an  English 
agent  should  be  near  the  person  of  Eugene  in  Italy ; 
and  Addison,  whose  diplomatic  education  was  now 
finished,  was  the  man  selected.  He  was  preparing  to 
enter  on  his  honorable  functions,  when  all  his  pros- 
pects were  for  a  time  darkened  by  the  death  of  Will- 
iam the  Third. 

Anne  had  long  felt  a  strong  aversion,  personal, 
political,  and  religious,  to  the  Whig  party.  That 
aversion  appeared  in  the  first  measures  of  her  reign. 
Manchester  was  deprived  of  the  seals,  after  he  had 
held  them  only  a  few  weeks.  Neither  Somers  nor 
Halifax  was  sworn  of  the  Privy  Council.  Addison 
shared  the  fate  of  his  three  patrons.  His  hopes  of 
employment  in  the  public  service  were  at  an  end  :  his 
pension  was  stopped  ;  and  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
support  himself  by  his  own  exertions.  He  became 
tutor  to  a  young    English    traveller,  and  appears  tc 


ADDISON.  157 

have  rambled  with  his  pupil  over  a  great  part  of  Swit- 
zerland and  Germany.  At  this  time  he  wrote  his 
pleasing  treatise  on  Medals.  It  was  not  published 
till  after  his  death  ;  but  several  distinguished  scholars 
saw  the  manuscript,  and  gave  just  praise  to  the  grace 
of  the  style,  and  to  the  learning  and  ingenuity  evinced 
by  the  quotations. 

From  Germany  Addison  repaired  to  Holland,  where 
he  learned  the  melancholy  news  of  his  fathers  death. 
After  passing  some  months  in  the  United  Provinces,  he 
returned  about  the  close  of  the  year  1703  to  England. 
He  was  there  cordially  received  by  his  friends,  and  intro- 
duced by  them  into  the  Kit  Cat  Club,  a  society  in  which 
were  collected  all  the  various  talents  and  accomplish- 
ments which  then  gave  lustre  to  the  Whig  party. 

Addison  was,  during  some  months  after  his  return 
from  the  Continent,  hard  pressed  by  pecuniary  diffi- 
culties. But  it  was  soon  in  the  power  of  his  noble 
patrons  to  serve  him  effectually.  A  political  change, 
silent  and  gradual,  but  of  the  highest  importance,  was 
in  daily  progress.  The  accession  of  Anne  had  been 
hailed  by  the  Tories  with  transports  of  joy  and  hope ; 
and  for  a  time  it  seemed  that  the  Whigs  had  fallen 
never  to  rise  again.  The  throne  was  surrounded  by 
men  supposed  to  be  attached  to  the  prerogative  and 
to  the  Church  ;  and  among  these  none  stood  so  high 
in  the  favor  of  the  sovereign  as  the  Lord  Treasurer 
Godolphin  and  the  Captain  General  Marlborough. 

The  country  gentlemen  and  the  country  clergymen 
had  fully  expected  that  the  policy  of  these  ministers 
would  be  directly  opposed  to  that  which  had  been 
almost  constantly  followed  by  William ;  that  the  landed 
interest  would  be  favored  at  the  expense  of  trade  ;  that 
no  addition  would  be  made  to  the  funded  debt ;  that 


158  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

the  privileges  conceded  to  Dissenters  by  the  late  King 
would  be  curtailed,  if  not  withdrawn ;  that  the  war 
with  France,  if  there  must  be  such  a  war,  would,  on 
our  part,  be  almost  entirely  naval ;  and  that  the  Gov- 
ernment would  avoid  close  connections  with  foreign 
powers,  and,  above  all,  with  Holland. 

But  the  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergymen 
were  fated  to  be  deceived,  not  for  the  last  time.  The 
prejudices  and  passions  which  raged  without  control 
in  the  vicarages,  in  cathedral  closes,  and  in  the  manor- 
houses  of  fox-hunting  squires,  were  not  shared  by  the 
chiefs  of  the  ministry.  Those  statesmen  saw  that  it 
was  both  for  the  public  interest  and  for  their  own 
interest,  to  adopt  a  Whig  policy  at  least  as  respected 
the  alliances  of  the  country  and  the  conduct  of  the 
war.  But,  if  the  foreign  policy  of  the  Whigs  were 
adopted,  it  was  impossible  to  abstain  from  adopting 
also  their  financial  policy.  The  natural  consequences 
followed.  The  rigid  Tories  were  alienated  from  the 
Government.  The  votes  of  the  Whigs  became  neces- 
sary to  it.  The  votes  of  the  Whigs  could  be  secured 
only  by  further  concessions  :  and  further  concessions 
the  Queen  was  induced  to  make. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1704,  the  state  of  par- 
ties bore  a  close  analogy  to  the  state  of  parties  in 
1826.  In  1826,  as  in  1704,  there  was  a  Tory  ministry 
divided  into  two  hostile  sections.  The  position  of 
Mr.  Canning  and  his  friends  in  1826  corresponded 
to  that  which  Marlborough  and  Godolphin  occupied 
in  1704.  Nottingham  and  Jersey  were,  in  1704,  what 
Lord  Eldon  and  Lord  Westmoreland  were  in  1826. 
The  Whigs  of  1704  were  in  a  situation  resembling 
that  in  which  the  Whigs  of  1826  stood.  In  1704, 
Somers,   Halifax,   Sunderland,  Cowper,   were  not    in 


ADDISON.  1 59 

office.  There  was  no  avowed  coalition  between  them 
and  the  moderate  Tories.  It  is  probable  that  no 
direct  communication  tending  to  such  a  coalition  had 
yet  taken  place  ;  yet  all  men  saw  that  such  a  coalition 
was  inevitable,  nay,  that  it  was  already  half  formed. 
Such,  or  nearly  such,  was  the  state  of  things  when 
tidings  arrived  of  the  great  battle  fought  at  Blenheim 
on  the  13th  August,  1704.  By  the  Whigs  the  news 
was  hailed  with  transports  of  joy  and  pride.  No 
fault,  no  cause  of  quarrel,  could  be  remembered  by 
them  against  the  Commander  whose  genius  had,  in 
one  day,  changed  the  face  of  Europe,  saved  the 
Imperial  throne,  humbled  the  House  of  Bourbon, 
and  secured  the  Act  of  Settlement  against  foreign 
hostility.  The  feeling  of  the  Tories  was  very  differ- 
ent. They  could  not  indeed,  without  imprudence, 
openly  express  regret  at  an  event  so  glorious  to  their 
country ;  but  their  congratulations  were  so  cold  and 
sullen  as  to  give  deep  disgust  to  the  victorious  general 
and  his  friends. 

Godolphin  was  not  a  reading  man.  Whatever  time 
he  could  spare  from  business  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
spending  at  Newmarket  or  at  the  card  table.  But  he 
was  not  absolutely  indifferent  to  poetry ;  and  he  was 
too  intelligent  an  observer  not  to  perceive  that  litera- 
ture was  a  formidable  engine  of  political  warfare,  and 
that  the  great  Whig  leaders  had  strengthened  their 
party,  and  raised  their  character,  by  extending  a  liberal 
and  judicious  patronage  to  good  writers.  He  was 
mortified,  and  not  without  reason,  by  the  exceeding 
badness  of  the  poems  which  appeared  in  honor  of 
the  battle  of  Blenheim.  One  of  these  poems  has 
been  rescued  from  oblivion  by  the  exquisite  absurdity 
of  three  lines. 


l6o  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

"  Think  of  two  thousand  gentlemen  at  least, 
And  each  man  mounted  on  his  capering  beast ; 
Into  the  Danube  they  were  pushed  by  shoals." 

Where  to  procure  better  verses  the  Treasurer  did 
not  know.  He  understood  how  to  negotiate  a  loan, 
or  remit  a  subsidy  :  he  was  also  well  versed  in  the 
history  of  running  horses  and  fighting  cocks ;  but  his 
acquaintance  among  the  poets  was  very  small.  He 
consulted  Halifax ;  but  Halifax  affected  to  decline 
the  office  of  adviser.  He  had,  he  said,  done  his  best, 
when  he  had  power,  to  encourage  men  whose  abilities 
and  acquirements  might  do  honor  to  their  country. 
Those  times  were  over.  Other  maxims  had  pre- 
vailed. Merit  was  suffered  to  pine  in  obscurity;  and 
the  public  money  was  squandered  on  the  undeserving. 
"  I  do  know."  he  added,  "  a  gentleman  who  would 
celebrate  the  battle  in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  sub- 
ject;  but  I  will  not  name  him.'1  Godolphin,  who 
was  expert  at  the  soft  answer  which  turneth  away 
wrath,  and  who  was  under  the  necessity  of  paying 
court  to  the  Whigs,  gently  replied  that  there  was  too 
much  ground  for  Halifax's  complaints,  but  that  what 
was  amiss  should  in  time  be  rectified,  and  that  in  the 
meantime  the  services  of  a  man  such  as  Halifax  had 
described  should  be  liberally  rewarded.  Halifax  then 
mentioned  Addison,  but.  mindful  of  the  dignity  as 
well  as  of  the  pecuniary  interest  of  his  friend,  insisted 
that  the  Minister  should  apply  in  the  most  courteous 
manner  to  Addison  himself;  and  this  Godolphin 
promised  to  do. 

Addison  then  occupied  a  garret  up  three  pair  of 
stairs,  over  a  small  shop  in  the  Haymarket.  In  this 
humble  lodging  he  was  surprised,  on  the  morning 
which  followed  the  conversation  between  Godolphin 


ADDISON.  l6l 

and  Halifax,  by  a  visit  from  no  less  a  person  than  the 
Right  Honorable  Henry  Boyle,  then  Chancellor  of 
the  Exchequer,  and  afterwards  Lord  Carleton.  This 
high-born  minister  had  been  sent  by  the  Lord  Treas- 
urer as  ambassador  to  the  needy  poet.  Addison 
readily  undertook  the  proposed  task,  a  task  which,  to 
so  good  a  Whig,  was  probably  a  pleasure.  When  the 
poem  was  little  more  than  half  finished,  he  showed  it 
to  Godolphin,  who  was  delighted  with  it,  and  particu- 
larly with  the  famous  similitude  of  the  Angel.  Addi- 
son was  instantly  appointed  to  a  Commissionership 
worth  about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  was 
assured  that  this  appointment  was  only  an  earnest 
of  greater  favors. 

The  Campaign  came  forth,  and  was  as  much  ad- 
mired by  the  public  as  by  the  Minister.  It  pleases  us 
less  on  the  whole  than  the  Epistle  to  Halifax.  Yet 
it  undoubtedly  ranks  high  among  the  poems  which 
appeared  during  the  interval  between  the  death  of 
Dryden  and  the  dawn  of  Pope's  genius.  The  chief 
merit  of  the  Campaign,  we  think,  is  that  which  was 
noticed  by  Johnson,  the  manly  and  rational  rejection 
of  fiction.  The  first  great  poet  whose  works  have 
come  down  to  us  sang  of  war  long  before  war  became 
a  science  or  a  trade.  If,  in  his  time,  there  was  enmity 
between  two  little  Greek  towns,  each  poured  forth  its 
crowd  of  citizens,  ignorant  of  discipline,  and  armed 
with  implements  of  labor  rudely  turned  into  weapons. 
On  each  side  appeared  conspicuous  a  few  chiefs, 
whose  wealth  had  enabled  them  to  procure  good 
armor,  horses,  and  chariots,  whose  leisure  had  en- 
abled them  to  practise  military  exercises.  One  such 
chief,  if  he  were  a  man  of  great  strength,  agility,  and 
courage,  would    probably   be    more  formidable    than 


1 62  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

twenty  common  men ;  and  the  force  and  dexterity 
with  which  he  flung  his  spear  might  have  no  incon- 
siderable share  in  deciding  the  event  of  the  day. 
Such  were  probably  the  battles  with  which  Homer 
was  familiar.  But  Homer  related  the  actions  of  men 
of  a  former  generation,  of  men  who  sprang  from  the 
Gods,  and  communed  with  the  Gods  face  to  face,  of 
men,  one  of  whom  could  with  ease  hurl  rocks  which 
two  sturdy  hinds  of  a  later  period  would  be  unable 
even  to  lift.  He  therefore  naturally  represented  their 
martial  exploits  as  resembling  in  kind,  but  far  sur- 
passing in  magnitude,  those  of  the  stoutest  and  most 
expert  combatants  of  his  own  age.  Achilles,  clad  in 
celestial  armor,  drawn  by  celestial  coursers,  grasping 
the  spear  which  none  but  himself  could  raise,  driving 
all  Troy  and  Lycia  before  him,  and  choking  Scaman- 
der  with  dead,  was  only  a  magnificent  exaggeration 
of  the  real  hero,  who,  strong,  fearless,  accustomed  to 
the  use  of  weapons,  guarded  by  a  shield  and  helmet 
of  the  best  Sidonian  fabric  and  whirled  along  by 
horses  of  Thessalian  breed,  struck  down  with  his  own 
right  arm  foe  after  foe.  In  all  rude  societies  similar 
notions  are  found.  There  are  at  this  day  countries 
where  the  Life-guardsman  Shaw  would  be  considered 
as  a  much  greater  warrior  than  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton. Bonaparte  loved  to  describe  the  astonishment 
with  which  the  Mamelukes  looked  at  his  diminutive 
figure.  Mourad  Bey,  distinguished  above  all  his  fel- 
lows by  his  bodily  strength,  and  by  the  skill  with 
which  he  managed  his  horse  and  his  sabre,  could  not 
believe  that  a  man  who  was  scarcely  five  feet  high, 
and  rode  like  a  butcher,  could  be  the  greatest  soldier 
in  Europe. 

Homer's  description  of  war  had  therefore  as  much 


ADDISON. 


I63 


truth  as  poetry  requires.  But  truth  was  altogether 
wanting  to  the  performances  of  those  who,  writing 
about  battles  which  had  scarcely  anything  in  common 
with  the  battles  of  his  times,  servilely  imitated  his 
manner.  The  folly  of  Silius  Italicus,  in  particular,  is 
positively  nauseous.  He  undertook  to  record  inverse 
the  vicissitudes  of  a  great  struggle  between  generals 
of  the  first  order :  and  his  narrative  is  made  up  of 
the  hideous  wounds  which  these  generals  inflicted 
with  their  own  hands.  Asdrubal  flings  a  spear  which 
grazes  the  shoulder  of  the  consul  Nero;  but  Nero 
sends  his  spear  into  AsdrubaPs  side.  Fabius  slays 
Thuris  and  Butes  and  Maris  and  Arses,  and  the  long- 
haired Adherbes,  and  the  gigantic  Thylis,  and  Sapharus 
and  Monaesus,  and  the  trumpeter  Morinus.  Hannibal 
runs  Perusinus  through  the  groin  with  a  stake,  and 
breaks  the  backbone  of  Telesinus  with  a  huge  stone. 
This  detestable  fashion  was  copied  in  modern  times, 
and  continued  to  prevail  down  to  the  age  of  Addison. 
Several  versifiers  had  described  William  turning 
thousands  to  flight  by  his  single  prowess,  and  dye- 
ing the  Boyne  with  Irish  blood.  Nay,  so  estimable 
a  writer  as  John  Philips,  the  author  of  the  Splen- 
did Shilling,  represented  Marlborough  as  having  won 
the  battle  of  Blenheim  merely  by  strength  of  muscle 
and  skill  in  fence.  The  following  lines  may  serve 
as  an  example : 

"  Churchill,  viewing  where 
The  violence  of  Tallard  most  prevailed, 
Came  to  oppose  his  slaughtering  arm.     With  speed 
Precipitate  he  rode,  urging  his  way 
O'er  hills  of  gasping  heroes,  and  fallen  steeds 
Rolling  in  death.     Destruction,  grim  with  blood, 
Attends  his  furious  course.     Around  his  head 
The  glowing  balls  play  innocent,  while  he 


1 64  LITER  A  R  Y  ESS  A  YS. 

With  dire  impetuous  sway  deals  fatal  blows 
Among  the  flying  Gauls.     In  Gallic  blood 
He  dyes  his  reeking  sword,  and  strews  the  ground 
With  headless  ranks.     What  can  they  do  ?     Or  how 
Withstand  his  wide-destroying  sword  ?  " 

Addison,  with  excellent  sense  and  taste,  departed 
from  this  ridiculous  fashion.  He  reserved  his  praise 
for  the  qualities  which  made  Marlborough  truly  great, 
energy,  sagacity,  military  science.  But,  above  all.  the 
poet  extolled  the  firmness  of  that  mind  which,  in  the 
midst  of  confusion,  uproar,  and  slaughter,  examined 
and  disposed  everything  with  the  serene  wisdom  of 
a  higher  intelligence. 

Here  it  was  that  he  introduced  the  famous  compari- 
son of  Marlborough  to  an  Angel  guiding  the  whirlwind. 
We  will  not  dispute  the  general  justice  of  John- 
son's remarks  on  this  passage.  But  we  must  point 
out  one  circumstance  which  appears  to  have  escaped 
all  the  critics.  The  extraordinary  effect  which  the 
simile  produced  when  it  first  appeared,  and  which 
to  the  following  generation  seemed  inexplicable,  is 
doubtless  to  be  chiefly  attributed  to  a  line  which 
most  readers  now  regard  as  a  feeble  parenthesis, 

"  Such  as,  of  late,  o'er  pale  Britannia  pass'd." 

Addison  spoke,  not  of  a  storm,  but  of  the  storm. 
The  great  tempest  of  November,  1703,  the  only 
tempest  which  in  our  latitude  has  equalled  the  rage 
of  a  tropical  hurricane,  had  left  a  dreadful  recollec- 
tion in  the  minds  of  all  men.  No  other  tempest  was 
ever  in  this  country  the  occasion  of  a  parliamentary 
address  or  of  a  public  fast.  Whole  fleets  had  been 
cast  away.  Large  mansions  had  been  blown  down. 
One  Prelate  had  been  buried  beneath  the  ruins  of  his 


ADDISON.  165 

palace.  London  and  Bristol  had  presented  the 
appearance  of  cities  just  sacked.  Hundreds  of  fami- 
lies were  still  in  mourning.  The  prostrate  trunks  of 
large  trees,  and  the  ruins  of  houses  still  attested,  in 
all  the  southern  counties,  the  fury  of  the  blast.  The 
popularity  which  the  simile  of  the  angel  enjoyed 
among  Addison's  contemporaries,  has  always  seemed 
to  us  to  be  a  remarkable  instance  of  the  advantage 
which,  in  rhetoric  and  poetry,  the  particular  has  over 
the  general. 

Soon  after  the  Campaign,  was  published  Addison's 
narrative  of  his  Travels  in  Italy.  The  first  effect  pro- 
duced by  this  Narrative  was  disappointment.  The 
crowd  of  readers  who  expected  politics  and  scandal, 
speculations  on  the  projects  of  Victor  Amadeus,  and 
anecdotes  about  the  jollities  of  convents  and  the 
amours  of  cardinals  and  nuns,  were  confounded  by 
finding  that  the  writer's  mind  was  much  more 
occupied  by  the  war  between  the  Trojans  and  Rutu- 
lians  than  by  the  war  between  France  and  Austria ; 
and  that  he  seemed  to  have  heard  no  scandal  of 
later  date  than  the  gallantries  of  the  Empress 
Faustina.  In  time,  however,  the  judgment  of  the 
many  was  overruled  by  that  of  the  few,  and,  before 
the  book  was  reprinted,  it  was  so  eagerly  sought 
that  it  sold  for  five  times  the  original  price.  It  is  still 
read  with  pleasure  :  the  style  is  pure  and  flowing ; 
the  classical  quotations  and  allusions  are  numerous 
and  happy ;  and  we  are  now  and  then  charmed  by 
that  singularly  humane  and  delicate  humor  in  which 
Addison  excelled  all  men.  Yet  this  agreeable  work, 
even  when  considered  merely  as  the  history  of  a  lit- 
erary tour,  may  justly  be  censured  on  account  of  its 
faults    of    omission.     We    have    already    said    that, 


9 


:i 


1 66  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

though  rich  in  extracts  from  the  Latin  poets,  it  con- 
tains scarcely  any  references  to  the  Latin  orators  and 
historians.  We  must  add,  that  it  contains  little,  or 
rather  no  information,  respecting  the  history  and  lit- 
erature of  modern  Italy.  To  the  best  of  our  remem- 
brance, Addison  does  not  mention  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Boiardo,  Berni,  Lorenzo  de1  Medici,  or 
Machiavelli.  He  coldly  tells  us  that  at  Ferrara  he 
saw  the  tomb  of  Ariosto  and  that  at  Venice  he 
heard  the  gondoliers  sing  verses  of  Tasso.  But 
for  Tasso  and  Ariosto  he  cared  far  less  than  for 
Valerius  Flaccus  and  Sidonius  Apolinaris.  The 
gentle  flow  of  the  Ticim  brings  a  line  of  Silius  to  his 
mind.  The  sulphurous  steam  of  Albula  suggests  to 
him  several  passages  of  Martial.  But  he  has  not  a 
word  to  say  of  the  illustrious  dead  of  Santa  Croce ; 
he  crosses  the  wood  of  Ravenna  without  recollecting 
the  Spectre  Huntsman,  and  wanders  up  and  down 
Rimini  without  one  thought  of  Francesca.  At  Paris 
he  had  eagerly  sought  an  introduction  to  Boileau  ; 
but  he  seems  not  to  have  been  at  all  aware  that  at 
Florence  he  was  in  the  vicinity  of  a  poet  with  whom 
Boileau  could  not  sustain  a  comparison,  of  the  great- 
est lyric  poet  of  modern  times,  Vincenzio  Filicaja. 
This  is  the  most  remarkable,  because  Filicaja  was 
the  favorite  poet  of  the  accomplished  Somers,  under 
whose  protection  Addison  travelled,  and  to  whom 
the  account  of  the  Travels  is  dedicated.  The  truth  is, 
I  that  Addison  knew  little  and  cared  less,  about  the 
Y  literature  of  modern  Italy.  His  favorite  models 
^were  Latin.  His  favorite  critics  were  French.  Half 
the  Tuscan  poetry  that  he  had  read  seemed  to  him 
monstrous,  and  the  other  half  tawdry. 

His  Travels  were  followed  by  the  lively  Opera  of 


ADDISON.  167 

Rosamond.  The  piece  was  ill  set  to  music,  and  there- 
fore failed  on  the  stage,  but  it  completely  succeeded  in 
print,  and  is  indeed  excellent  in  its  kind.  The  smooth- 
ness with  which  the  verses  glide,  and  the  elasticity 
with  which  they  bound,  is,  to  our  ears  at  least,  very 
pleasing.  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  if  Addison 
had  left  heroic  couplets  to  Pope,  and  blank  verse  to 
Rowe,  and  had  employed  himself  in  writing  airy  and 
spirited  songs,  his  reputation  as  a  poet  would  have 
stood  far  higher  than  it  now  does.  Some  years  after 
his  death,  Rosamond  was  set  to  new  music  by  Doctor 
Arne ;  and  was  performed  with  complete  success. 
Several  passages  long  retained  their  popularity,  and 
were  daily  sung,  during  the  latter  part  of  George  the 
Second's  reign,  at  all  the  harpsichords  in  England. 

While  Addison  thus  amused  himself,  his  prospects, 
and  the  prospects  of  his  party,  were  constantly  becom- 
ing brighter  and  brighter.  In  the  spring  of  1705  the 
ministers  were  freed  from  the  restraint  imposed  by  a 
House  of  Commons  in  which  Tories  of  the  most  per- 
verse class  had  the  ascendency.  The  elections  were 
favorable  to  the  Whigs.  The  coalition  which  had  been 
tacitly  and  gradually  formed  was  now  openly  avowed. 
The  Great  Seal  was  given  to  Cowper.  Somers  and 
Halifax  were  sworn  of  the  Council.  Halifax  was  sent  in 
the  following  year  to  carry  the  decoration  of  the  order  of 
the  garter  to  the  Electoral  Prince  of  Hanover,  and  was 
accompanied  on  this  honorable  mission  by  Addison, 
who  had  just  been  made  Under  Secretary  of  State.  The 
Secretary  of  State  under  whom  Addison  first  served 
was  Sir  Charles  Hedges,  a  Tory.  But  Hedges  was 
soon  dismissed  to  make  room  for  the  most  vehement 
of  Whigs,  Charles,  Earl  of  Sunderland.  In  every  de- 
partment of  the  state,  indeed,  the  High  Churchmen 


1 68  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

were  compelled  to  give  place  to  their  opponents.  At 
the  close  of  1707,  the  Tories  who  still  remained  in 
office  strove  to  rally,  with  Harley  at  their  head.  But 
the  attempt,  though  favored  by  the  Queen,  who  had 
always  been  a  Tory  at  heart,  and  who  had  now 
quarrelled  with  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough,  was  un- 
successful. The  time  was  not  yet.  The  Captain  Gen- 
eral was  at  the  height  of  popularity  and  glory.  The 
Low  Church  party  had  a  majority  in  Parliament.  The 
country  squires  and  rectors,  though  occasionally  utter- 
ing a  savage  growl,  were  for  the  most  part  in  a  state  of 
torpor,  which  lasted  till  they  were  roused  into  activity, 
and  indeed  into  madness,  by  the  prosecution  of  Sa- 
cheverell.  Harley  and  his  adherents  were  compelled  to 
retire.  The  victory  of  the  Whigs  was  complete.  At 
the  general  election  of  1708,  their  strength  in  the 
House  of  Commons  became  irresistible ;  and  before 
the  end  of  that  year,  Somers  was  made  Lord  President 
of  the  Council,  and  Wharton  Lord  Lieutenant  of 
Ireland. 

Addison  sat  for  Malmsbury  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons which  was  elected  in  1708.  But  the  House  of 
Commons  was  not  the  field  for  him.  The  bashfulness 
of  his  nature  made  his  wit  and  eloquence  useless  in 
debate.  He  once  rose,  but  could  not  overcome  his 
diffidence,  and  ever  after  remained  silent.  Nobody 
can  think  it  strange  that  a  great  writer  should  fail  as 
a  speaker.  But  many,  probably,  will  think  it  strange 
that  Addison's  failure  as  a  speaker  should  have  had 
no  unfavorable  effect  on  his  success  as  a  politician. 
In  our  time,  a  man  of  high  rank  and  great  fortune 
might,  though  speaking  very  little  and  very  ill,  hold  a 
considerable  post.  But  it  would  now  be  inconceivable 
that  a  mere  adventurer,  a  man  who,  when  out  of  office, 


ADDISON.  169 

must  live  by  his  pen,  should  in  a  few  years  become 
successively  Under  Secretary  of  State,  Chief  Secretary 
for  Ireland,  and  Secretary  of  State,  without  some  ora- 
torical talent.  Addison,  without  high  birth,  and  with 
little  property,  rose  to  a  post  which  Dukes,  the  heads 
of  the  great  houses  of  Talbot,  Russell,  and  Bentinck, 
have  thought  it  an  honor  to  fill.  Without  opening  his 
lips  in  debate,  he  rose  to  a  post,  the  highest  that  Chat- 
ham or  Fox  ever  reached.  And  this  he  did  before  he 
had  been  nine  years  in  Parliament.  We  must  look 
for  the  explanation  of  this  seeming  miracle  to  the 
peculiar  circumstances  in  which  that  generation  was 
placed.  During  the  interval  which  elapsed  between 
the  time  when  the  Censorship  of  the  Press  ceased,  and 
the  time  when  parliamentary  proceedings  began  to  be 
freely  reported,  literary  talents  were,  to  a  public  man, 
of  much  more  importance,  and  oratorical  talents  of 
much  less  importance,  than  in  our  time.  At  present 
the  best  way  of  giving  rapid  and  wide  publicity 
to  a  fact  or  an  argument  is  to  introduce  that  fact  or 
argument  into  a  speech  made  in  Parliament.  If  a 
political  tract  were  to  appear  superior  to  the  Conduct 
of  the  Allies,  or  to  the  best  numbers  of  the  Freeholder, 
the  circulation  of  such  a  tract  would  be  languid  indeed 
when  compared  with  the  circulation  of  every  remark- 
able word  uttered  in  the  deliberations  of  the  legisla- 
ture. A  speech  made  in  the  House  of  Commons  at] 
four  in  the  morning  is  on  thirty  thousand  tables  before 
ten.  A  speech  made  on  the  Monday  is  read  on  the ■ 
Wednesday  by  multitudes  in  Antrim  and  Aberdeen- 
shire. The  orator,  by  the  help  of  the  shorthand 
writer,  has  to  a  great  extent  superseded  the  pam- 
phleteer. It  was  not  so  in  the  reign  of  Anne.  The  best 
speech  could  then  produce  no  effect  except  on  those 


170  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

who  heard  it.  It  was  only  by  means  of  the  press  that 
the  opinion  of  the  public  without  doors  could  be  in- 
fluenced ;  and  the  opinion  of  the  public  without  doors 
could  not  but  be  of  the  highest  importance  in  a  country 
governed  by  parliaments,  and  indeed  at  that  time 
governed  by  triennial  parliaments.  The  pen  was 
therefore  a  more  formidable  political  engine  than  the 
tongue.  Mr.  Pitt  and  Mr.  Fox  contended  only  in 
Parliament.  But  Walpole  and  Pulteney,  the  Pitt  and 
Fox  of  an  earlier  period,  had  not  done  half  of  what 
was  necessary,  when  they  sat  down  amidst  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  House  of  Commons.  They  had  still  to 
plead  their  cause  before  the  country,  and  this  they 
could  only  do  by  means  of  the  press.  Their  works  are 
now  forgotten.  But  it  is  certain  that  there  were  in  Grub 
Street  few  more  assiduous  scribblers  of  Thoughts, 
Letters,  Answers,  Remarks,  than  these  two  great  chiefs 
of  parties.  Pulteney.  when  leader  of  the  Opposition, 
and  possessed  of  thirty  thousand  a  year,  edited  the 
Craftsman.  Walpole,  though  not  a  man  of  literary 
habits,  was  the  author  of  at  least  ten  pamphlets,  and 
retouched  and  corrected  many  more.  These  facts  suffi- 
ciently show  of  how  great  importance  literary  assist- 
ance then  was  to  the  contending  parties.  St.  John 
was,  certainly,  in  Anne's  reign,  the  best  Tory  speaker ; 
Cowper  was  probably  the  best  Whig  speaker.  But  it 
may  well  be  doubted  whether  St.  John  did  so  much 
for  the  Tories  as  Swift,  and  whether  Cowper  did  so 
much  for  the  Whigs  as  Addison.  When  these  things 
are  duly  considered,  it  will  not  be  thought  strange  that 
Addison  should  have  climbed  higher  in  the  state  than 
any  other  Englishman  has  ever,  by  means  merely  of 
literary  talents,  been  able  to  climb.  Swift  would,  in 
all  probability,  have  climbed  as  high,  if  he  had  not 


ADDISON.  I71 

been  encumbered  by  his  cassock  and  his  pudding 
sleeves.  As  far  as  the  homage  of  the  great  went, 
Swift  had  as  much  of  it  as  if  he  had  been  Lord 
Treasurer. 

To  the  influence  which  Addison  derived  from  his 
literary  talents  was  added  all  the  influence  which 
arises  from  character.  The  world,  always  ready  to 
think  the  worst  of  needy  political  adventurers,  was 
forced  to  make  one  exception.  Restlessness,  vio- 
lence, audacity,  laxity  of  principle,  are  the  vices  ordi- 
narily attributed  to  that  class  of  men.  But  faction 
itself  could  not  deny  that  Addison  had,  through  all 
changes  of  fortune,  been  strictly  faithful  to  his  early 
opinions,  and  to  his  early  friends ;  that  his  integrity 
was  without  stain ;  that  his  whole  deportment  indi- 
cated a  fine  sense  of  the  becoming ;  that,  in  the 
utmost  heat  of  controversy,  his  zeal  was  tempered  by 
a  regard  for  truth,  humanity,  and  social  decorum ; 
that  no  outrage  could  ever  provoke  him  to  retaliation 
unworthy  of  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman ;  and  that 
his  only  faults  were  a  too  sensitive  delicacy,  and  a 
modesty  which  amounted  to  bashfulness. 

He  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  popular  men 
of  his  time  ;  and  much  of  his  popularity  he  owed, 
we  believe,  to  that  very  timidity  which  his  friends 
lamented.  That  timidity  often  prevented  him  from 
exhibiting  his  talents  to  the  best  advantage.  But  it 
propitiated  Nemesis.  It  averted  that  enemy  which 
would  otherwise  have  been  excited  by  fame  so  splen- 
did, and  by  so  rapid  an  elevation.  No  man  is  so 
great  a  favorite  with  the  public  as  he  who  is  at  once 
an  object  of  admiration,  of  respect,  and  of  pity ;  and 
such  were  the  feelings  which  Addison  inspired. 
Those  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  hearing  his  famil- 


172  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

iar  conversation,  declared  with  one  voice  that  it  was 
superior  even  to  his  writings.  The  brilliant  Mary 
Montague  said,  that  she  had  known  all  the  wits,  and 
that  Addison  was  the  best  company  in  the  world. 
The  malignant  Pope  was  forced  to  own,  that  there 
was  a  charm  in  Addison's  talk,  which  could  be  found 
nowhere  else.  Swift,  when  burning  with  animosity 
against  the  Whigs,  could  not  but  confess  to  Stella 
that,  after  all,  he  had  never  known  any  associate  so 
agreeable  as  Addison.  Steele,  an  excellent  judge  of 
lively  conversation,  said,  that  the  conversation  of 
Addison  was  at  once  the  most  polite,  and  the  most 
mirthful,  that  could  be  imagined  ;  that  it  was  Ter- 
ence and  Catullus  in  one,  heightened  by  an  exquisite 
something  which  was  neither  Terence  nor  Catullus, 
but  Addison  alone.  Young,  an  excellent  judge  of 
serious  conversation,  said,  that  when  Addison  was  at 
his  ease,  he  went  on  in  a  noble  strain  of  thought  and 
language,  so  as  to  chain  the  attention  of  every  hearer. 
Nor  were  Addison's  great  colloquial  powers  more 
admirable  than  the  courtesy  and  softness  of  heart 
which  appeared  in  his  conversation.  At  the  same 
time,  it  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  he  was  wholly 
devoid  of  the  malice  which  is,  perhaps,  inseparable 
from  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  He  had  one 
habit  which  both  Swift  and  Stella  applauded,  and 
which  we  hardly  know  how  to  blame.  If  his  first 
attempts  to  set  a  presuming  dunce  right  were  ill 
received,  he  changed  his  tone,  "  assented  with  civil 
leer,11  and  lured  the  flattered  coxcomb  deeper  and 
deeper  into  absurdity.  That  such  was  his  practice  we 
should,  we  think,  have  guessed  from  his  works.  The 
Tatler's  criticisms  on  Mr.  Softly's  sonnet,  and  the 
Spectator's   dialogue  with    the   politician   who   is  so 


ADDISON.  1 73 

zealous  for  the  honor  of  Lady  Q — p — t — s,  are  excel- 
lent specimens  of  this  innocent  mischief. 

Such  were  Addison's  talents  for  conversation. 
But  his  rare  gifts  were  not  exhibited  to  crowds  or  to 
strangers.  As  soon  as  he  entered  a  large  company, 
as  soon  as  he  saw  an  unknown  face,  his  lips  were 
sealed,  and  his  manners  became  constrained.  None 
who  met  him  only  in  great  assemblies  would  have 
been  able  to  believe  that  he  was  the  same  man  who 
had  often  kept  a  few  friends  listening  and  laughing 
round  a  table,  from  the  time  when  the  play  ended,  till 
the  clock  of  St.  Paul's  in  Covent  Garden  struck  four. 
Yet,  even  at  such  a  table,  he  was  not  seen  to  the  best 
advantage.  To  enjoy  his  conversation  in  the  highest 
perfection,  it  was  necessary  to  be  alone  with  him,  and 
to  hear  him,  in  his  own  phrase,  think  aloud.  "  There 
is  no  such  thing,1'  he  used  to  say,  u  as  real  conversa- 
tion, but  between  two  persons.1' 

This  timidity,  a  timidity  surely  neither  ungraceful 
nor  unamiable,  led  Addison  into  the  two  most  serious 
faults  which  can  with  justice  be  imputed  to  him.  He 
found  that  wine  broke  the  spell  which  lay  on  his  fine 
intellect,  and  was  therefore  too  easily  seduced  into 
convivial  excess.  Such  excess  was  in  that  age  re- 
garded, even  by  grave  men,  as  the  most  venial  of  all 
peccadilloes,  and  was  so  far  from  being  a  mark  of 
ill-breeding,  that  it  was  almost  essential  to  the  char- 
acter of  a  fine  gentleman.  But  the  smallest  speck 
is  seen  on  a  white  ground ;  and  almost  all  the  biog- 
raphers of  Addison  have  said  something  about  this 
failing.  Of  any  other  statesman  or  writer  of  Queen 
Anne's  reign,  we  should  no  more  think  of  saying  that 
he  sometimes  took  too  much  wine,  than  that  he  wore 
a  long  wig  and  a  sword. 


174  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

To  the  excessive  modesty  of  Addison's  nature  we 
must  ascribe  another  fault  which  generally  arises  irom 
a  very  different  cause.  He  became  a  little  too  fond 
of  seeing  himself  surrounded  by  a  small  circle  of 
admirers,  to  whom  he  was  as  a  King  or  rather  as  a 
God.  All  these  men  were  far  inferior  to  him  in 
ability,  and  some  of  them  had  very  serious  faults. 
Nor  did  those  faults  escape  his  observation  ;  for,  if 
ever  there  was  an  eye  that  saw  through  and  through 
men,  it  was  the  eye  of  Addison.  But  with  the  keen- 
est observation,  and  the  finest  sense  of  the  ridiculous, 
he  had  a  large  charity.  The  feeling  with  which  he 
looked  on  most  of  his  humble  companions  was  one 
of  benevolence,  slightly  tinctured  with  contempt. 
He  was  at  perfect  ease  in  their  company ;  he  was 
grateful  for  their  devoted  attachment ;  and  he  loaded 
them  with  benefits.  Their  veneration  for  him  ap- 
pears to  have  exceeded  that  with  which  Johnson  was 
regarded  by  Bos  well,  or  Warburton  by  Hurd.  It  was 
not  in  the  power  of  adulation  to  turn  such  a  head,  or 
deprave  such  a  heart,  as  Addison's.  But  it  must  in 
candor  be  admitted  that  he  contracted  some  of  the 
faults  which  can  scarcely  be  avoided  by  any  person 
who  is  so  unfortunate  as  to  be  the  oracle  of  a  small 
literary  coterie. 

One  member  of  this  little  society  was  Eustace 
Budgell,  a  young  Templer  of  some  literature,  and  a 
distant  relation  of  Addison.  There  was  at  this  time 
no  stain  on  the  character  of  Budgell,  and  it  is  not 
improbable  that  his  career  would  have  been  prosper- 
ous and  honorable,  if  the  life  of  his  cousin  had  been 
prolonged.  But,  when  the  master  was  laid  in  the 
grave,  the  disciple  broke  loose  from  all  restraint, 
descended  rapidly  from  one  degree  of  vice  and  misery 


ADDISON.  175 

to  another,  ruined  his  fortune  by  follies,  attempted  to 
repair  it  by  crimes,  and  at  length  closed  a  wicked 
and  unhappy  life  by  self-murder.  Yet,  to  the  last, 
the  wretched  man,  gambler,  lampooner,  cheat,  forger, 
as  he  was,  retained  his  affection  and  veneration  for 
Addison,  and  recorded  those  feelings  in  the  last  lines 
which  he  traced  before  he  hid  himself  from  infamy 
under  London  Bridge. 

Another  of  Addison's  favorite  companions  was 
Ambrose  Philips,  a  good  Whig  and  a  middling  poet, 
who  had  the  honor  of  bringing  into  fashion  a  species 
of  composition  which  has  been  called,  after  his  name, 
Namby  Pamby.  But  the  most  remarkable  members 
of  the  little  senate  as  Pope  long  afterwards  called  it, 
were  Richard  Steele  and  Thomas  Tickell. 

Steele  had  known  Addison  from  childhood.  They 
had  been  together  at  the  Charter  House  and  at 
Oxford  ;  but  circumstances  had  then,  for  a  time, 
separated  them  widely.  Steele  had  left  college  with- 
out taking  a  degree,  had  been  disinherited  by  a  rich 
relation,  had  led  a  vagrant  life,  had  served  in  the 
army,  had  tried  to  find  the  philosopher's  stone,  and 
had  written  a  religious  treatise  and  several  comedies. 
He  was  one  of  those  people  whom  it  is  impossible 
either  to  hate  or  to  respect.  His  temper  was  sweet, 
his  affections  warm,  his  spirits  lively,  his  passions 
strong,  and  his  principles  weak.  His  life  was  spent 
in  sinning  and  repenting ;  in  inculcating  what  was 
right,  and  doing  what  was  wrong.  In  speculation, 
he  was  a  man  of  piety  and  honor  ;  in  practice  he  was 
much  of  the  rake  and  a  little  of  the  swindler.  He 
was,  however,  so  good-natured  that  it  was  not  easy  to 
be  seriously  angry  with  him,  and  that  even  rigid  mor- 
alists felt  more  inclined  to  pity  than  to  blame  him, 


176  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

when  he  diced  himself  into  a  spunging  house  or 
drank  himself  into  a  fever.  Addison  regarded  Steele 
with  kindness  not  unmingled  with  scorn,  tried,  with 
little  success,  to  keep  him  out  of  scrapes,  introduced 
him  to  the  great,  procured  a  place  for  him,  corrected 
his  plays,  and,  though  by  no  means  rich,  lent  him 
large  sums  of  money.  One  of  these  loans  appears, 
from  a  letter  dated  in  August,  1 708,  to  have  amounted 
to  a  thousand  pounds.  These  pecuniary  transactions 
probably  led  to  frequent  bickerings.  It  is  said  that, 
on  one  occasion,  Steele's  negligence,  or  dishonesty, 
provoked  Addison  to  repay  himself  by  the  help  of  a 
bailiff.  We  cannot  join  with  Miss  Aikin  in  rejecting 
this  story.  Johnson  heard  it  from  Savage,  who  heard 
it  from  Steele.  Few  private  transactions  which  took 
place  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  ago,  are  proved  by 
stronger  evidence  than  this.  But  we  can  by  no  means 
agree  with  those  who  condemn  Addison's  severity. 
The  most  amiable  of  mankind  may  well  be  moved  to 
indignation,  when  what  he  has  earned  hardly,  and 
lent  with  great  inconvenience  to  himself,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  relieving  a  friend  in  distress,  is  squandered 
with  insane  profusion.  We  will  illustrate  our  mean- 
ing by  an  example  which  is  not  the  less  striking 
because  it  is  taken  from  fiction.  Dr.  Harrison,  in 
Fielding's  Amelia,  is  represented  as  the  most  benevo- 
lent of  human  beings  ;  yet  he  takes  in  execution,  not 
only  the  goods,  but  the  person  of  his  friend  Booth. 
Dr.  Harrison  resorts  to  this  strong  measure  because 
he  has  been  informed  that  Booth,  while  pleading  pov- 
erty as  an  excuse  for  not  paying  just  debts,  has  been 
buying  fine  jewelry,  and  setting  up  a  coach.  No  per- 
son who  is  well  acquainted  with  Steele's  life  and  cor- 
respondence can  doubt  that  he  behaved  quite  as  ill  to 


ADDISON.  177 

Addison  as  Booth  was  accused  of  behaving  to  Dr. 
Harrison.  The  real  history,  we  have  little  doubt, 
was  something  like  this  :  —  A  letter  comes  to  Addi- 
son, imploring  help  in  pathetic  terms,  promising  refor- 
mation and  speedy  repayment.  Poor  Dick  declares 
that  he  has  not  an  inch  of  candle,  or  a  bushel  of  coals, 
or  credit  with  the  butcher  for  a  shoulder  of  mutton. 
Addison  is  moved.  He  determines  to  deny  himself 
some  medals  which  are  wanting  to  his  series  of  the 
Twelve  Caesars  ;  to  put  off  buying  the  new  edition  of 
Bayle's  Dictionary ;  and  to  wear  his  old  sword  and 
buckles  another  year.  In  this  way  he  manages  to 
send  a  hundred  pounds  to  his  friend.  The  next  day 
he  calls  on  Steele,  and  finds  scores  of  gentlemen  and 
ladies  assembled.  The  fiddles  are  playing.  The 
table  is  groaning  under  Champagne,  Burgundy,  and 
pyramids  of  sweetmeats.  Is  it  strange  that  a  man 
whose  kindness  is  thus  abused,  should  send  sheriff's 
officers  to  reclaim  what  is  due  to  him? 

Tickell  was  a  young  man,  fresh  from  Oxford,  who 
had  introduced  himself  to  public  notice  by  writing  a 
most  ingenious  and  graceful  little  poem  in  praise  of 
the  opera  of  Rosamond.  He  deserved,  and  at  length 
attained,  the  first  place  in  Addison's  friendship.  For 
a  time  Steele  and  Tickell  were  on  good  terms.  But 
they  loved  Addison  too  much  to  love  each  other,  and 
at  length  became  as  bitter  enemies  as  the  rival  bulls 
in  Virgil. 

At  the  close  of  1708  Wharton  became  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant of  Ireland,  and  appointed  Addison  Chief  Sec- 
retary. Addison  was  consequently  under  the  necessity 
of  quitting  London  for  Dublin.  Besides  the  chief 
secretaryship,  which  was  then  worth  about  two  thou- 
sand pounds  a  year,  he  obtained  a  patent  appointing 


I  ?8  LITER  AR  Y  ESS  A  VS. 

him  keeper  of  the  Irish  Records  for  life,  with  a  salary 
of  three  or  four  hundred  a  year.  Budgell  accom- 
panied his  cousin  in  the  capacity  of  private  Secretary. 

Wharton  and  Addison  had  nothing  in  common  but 
Whiggism.  The  Lord  Lieutenant  was  not  only  licen- 
tious and  corrupt,  but  was  distinguished  from  other 
libertines  and  jobbers  by  a  callous  impudence  which 
presented  the  strongest  contrast  to  the  Secretary's 
gentleness  and  delicacy.  Many  parts  of  the  Irish 
administration  at  this  time  appear  to  have  deserved 
serious  blame.  But  against  Addison  there  was  not  a 
murmur.  He  long  afterwards  asserted,  what  all  the 
evidence  which  we  have  ever  seen  tends  to  prove,  that 
his  diligence  and  integrity  gained  the  friendship  of 
all  the  most  considerable  persons  in  Ireland. 

The  parliamentary  career  of  Addison  in  Ireland  has, 
we  think,  wholly  escaped  the  notice  of  all  his  biogra- 
phers. He  was  elected  member  for  the  borough  of 
Cavan  in  the  summer  of  1709 ;  and  in  the  journals  of 
two  sessions  his  name  frequently  occurs.  Some  of  the 
entries  appear  to  indicate  that  he  so  far  overcame  his 
timidity  as  to  make  speeches.  Nor  is  this  by  any 
means  improbable  ;  for  the  Irish  House  of  Commons 
was  a  far  less  formidable  audience  than  the  English 
House  ;  and  many  tongues  which  were  tied  by  fear 
in  the  greater  assembly  became  fluent  in  the  smaller. 
Gerard  Hamilton,  for  example,  who,  from  fear  of 
losing  the  fame  gained  by  his  single  speech,  sat  mute 
at  Westminster  during  forty  years,  spoke  with  great 
effect  at  Dublin  when  he  was  Secretary  to  Lord 
Halifax. 

While  Addison  was  in  Ireland,  an  event  occurred 
to  which  he  owes  his  high  and  permanent  rank  among 
British  writers.     As  yet  his  fame  rested  on  perform- 


ADDISON.  1 79 

ances  which,  though  highly  respectable,  were  not 
built  for  duration,  and  which  would,  if  he  had  pro- 
duced nothing  else,  have  now  been  almost  forgotten, 
on  some  excellent  Latin  verses,  on  some  English 
verses  which  occasionally  rose  above  mediocrity,  and 
on  a  book  of  travels,  agreeably  written,  but  not  indi- 
cating any  extraordinary  powers  of  mind.  These 
works  showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  taste,  sense,  and 
learning.  The  time  had  come  when  he  was  to  prove 
himself  a  man  of  genius,  and  to  enrich  our  literature 
with  compositions  which  will  live  as  long  as  the  Eng- 
lish language. 

In  the  spring  of  1709  Steele  formed  a  literary  proj- 
ect, of  which  he  was  far  indeed  from  foreseeing  the 
consequences.  Periodical  papers  had  during  many 
years  been  published  in  London.  Most  of  these 
were  political ;  but  in  some  of  them  questions  of 
morality,  taste,  and  love  casuistry  had  been  discussed. 
The  literary  merit  of  these  works  was  small  indeed ; 
and  even  their  names  are  now  known  only  to  the 
curious. 

Steele  had  been  appointed  Gazetteer  by  Sunderland, 
at  the  request,  it  is  said,  of  Addison,  and  thus  had 
access  to  foreign  intelligence  earlier  and  more  authen- 
tic than  was  in  those  times  within  the  reach  of  an 
ordinary  newswriter.  This  circumstance  seems  to 
have  suggested  to  him  the  scheme  of  publishing  a 
periodical  paper  on  a  new  plan.  It  was  to  appear  on 
the  days  on  which  the  post  left  London  for  the  coun- 
try, which  were,  in  that  generation,  the  Tuesdays, 
Thursdays,  and  Saturdays.  It  was  to  contain  the 
foreign  news,  accounts  of  theatrical  representations, 
and  the  literary  gossip  of  Will's  and  of  the  Grecian. 
It  was  also  to  contain  remarks    on   the    fashionable 


I  So  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

topics  of  the  day,  compliments  to  beauties,  pasquin- 
ades on  noted  sharpers,  and  criticisms  on  popular 
preachers.  The  aim  of  Steele  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  at  first  higher  than  this.  He  was  not  ill 
qualified  to  conduct  the  work  which  he  had  planned. 
His  public  intelligence  he  drew  from  the  best  sources. 
He  knew  the  town,  and  had  paid  dear  for  his  knowl- 
edge. He  had  read  much  more  than  the  dissipated 
men  of  that  time  were  in  the  habit  of  reading.  He 
was  a  rake  among  scholars,  and  a  scholar  among 
rakes.  His  style  was  easy  and  not  incorrect;  and, 
though  his  wit  and  humor  were  of  no  high  order,  his 
gay  animal  spirits  imparted  to  his  compositions  an 
air  of  vivacity  which  ordinary  readers  could  hardly 
distinguish  from  comic  genius.  His  writings  have 
been  well  compared  to  those  light  wines  which, 
though  deficient  in  body  and  flavor,  are  yet  a  pleas- 
ant small  drink,  if  not  kept  too  long,  or  carried  too 
far. 

Isaac  BickerstafF,  Esquire,  Astrologer,  was  an  im- 
aginary person,  almost  as  well  known  in  that  age  as 
Air.  Paul  Pry  or  Mr.  Samuel  Pickwick  in  ours.  Swift 
had  assumed  the  name  of  BickerstafF  in  a  satirical 
pamphlet  against  Partridge,  the  maker  of  almanacs. 
Partridge  had  been  fool  enough  to  publish  a  furious 
reply.  BickerstafF  had  rejoined  in  a  second  pamphlet 
still  more  diverting  than  the  first.  All  the  wits  had 
combined  to  keep  up  the  joke,  and  the  town  was  long 
in  convulsions  of  laughter.  Steele  determined  to 
employ  the  name,  which  this  controversy  had  made 
popular;  and,  in  1709.  it  was  announced  that  Isaac 
BickerstafF,  Esquire,  Astrologer,  was  about  to  publish 
a  paper  called  the  Tatler. 

Addison  had  not  been  consulted  about  this  scheme  : 


ADDISON.  l8l 

but  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  it  he  determined  to  give 
his  assistance.  The  effect  of  that  assistance  cannot 
be  better  described  than  in  Steele's  own  words.  "I 
fared,"'  he  said,  "  like  a  distressed  prince  who  calls  in 
a  powerful  neighbor  to  his  aid.  I  was  undone  by  my 
auxiliary.  When  I  had  once  called  him  in,  I  could 
not  subsist  without  dependence  on  him.'"  "The 
paper/1  he  says  elsewhere.  "  was  advanced  indeed. 
It  was  raised  to  a  greater  thing  than  I  intended  it." 

It  is  probable  that  Addison,  when  he  sent  across 
St.  George's  Channel  his  first  contributions  to  the 
Tatler,  had  no  notion  of  the  extent  and  variety  of 
his  own  powers.  He  was  the  possessor  of  a  vast 
mine,  rich  with  a  hundred  ores.  But  he  had  been 
acquainted  only  with  the  least  precious  part  of  his 
treasures,  and  had  hitherto  contented  himself  with 
producing  sometimes  copper  and  sometimes  lead,  in- 
termingled with  a  little  silver.  All  at  once,  and  by 
mere  accident,  he  had  lighted  on  an  inexhaustible 
vein  of  the  finest  gold. 

The  mere  choice  and  arrangement  of  his  words 
would  have  sufficed  to  make  his  essays  classical.  For"! 
never,  not  even  by  Dryden,  not  even  by  Temple,  had 
the  English  language  been  written  with  such  sweet- 
ness, grace,  and  facility.  But  this  was  the  smallest 
part  of  Addison's  praise.  Had  he  clothed  his 
thoughts  in  the  half  French  style  of  Horace  Wal- 
pole,  or  in  the  half  Latin  style  of  Dr.  Johnson,  or 
in  the  half  German  jargon  of  the  present  day,  his 
genius  would  have  triumphed  over  all  faults  of  man- 
ner. As  a  moral  satirist  he  stands  unrivalled.  If 
ever  the  best  Tatlers  and  Spectators  were  equalled  in 
their  own  kind,  we  should  be  inclined  to  guess  that 
it  must  have  been  by  the  lost  comedies  of  Menander. 


1 82  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

In  wit,  properly  so  called,  Addison  was  not  inferior 
to  Cowley  or  Butler.  No  single  ode  of  Cowley  con- 
tains so  many  happy  analogies  as  are  crowded  into 
the  lines  to  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller  ;  and  we  would  under- 
take to  collect  from  the  Spectators  as  great  a  number 
of  ingenious  illustrations  as  can  be  found  in  Hudibras. 
The  still  higher  faculty  of  invention  Addison  pos- 
sessed in  still  larger  measure.  The  numerous  fic- 
tions, generally  original,  often  wild  and  grotesque,  but 
always  singularly  graceful  and  happy,  which  are  found 
in  his  essays,  fully  entitle  him  to  the  rank  of  a  great 
poet,  a  rank  to  which  his  metrical  compositions  give 
him  no  claim.  As  an  observer  of  life,  of  manner,  of 
all  the  shades  of  human  character,  he  stands  in  the 
first  class.  And  what  he  observed  he  had  the  art  of 
communicating  in  two  widely  different  ways.  He 
could  describe  virtues,  vices,  habits,  whims,  as  well 
as  Clarendon.  But  he  could  do  something  better. 
He  could  call  human  beings  into  existence,  and  make 
them  exhibit  themselves.  If  we  wish  to  find  any- 
thing more  vivid  than  Addison's  best  portraits,  we 
must  go  either  to  Shakspeare  or  Cervantes. 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  Addison's  humor,  of  his 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  of  his  power  of  awakening  that 
sense  in  others,  and  of  drawing  mirth  from  incidents 
which  occur  every  day,  and  from  little  peculiarities  of 
temper  and  manner,  such  as  may  be  found  in  every 
man  ?  We  feel  the  charm  :  we  give  ourselves  up  to 
it :  but  we  strive  in  vain  to  analyze  it. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  of  describing  Addison's  pecul- 
iar pleasantry  is  to  compare  it  with  the  pleasantry  of 
some  other  great  satirists.  The  three  most  eminent 
masters  of  the  art  of  ridicule  during  the  eighteenth 
century,  were,  we  conceive,  Addison,  Swift,  and  Vol- 


ADDISON.  183 

taire.  Which  of  the  three  had  the  greatest  power  of 
moving  laughter  may  be  questioned.  But  each  of 
them,  within  his  own  domain,  was  supreme. 

Voltaire  is  the  prince  of  buffoons.  His  merriment 
is  without  disguise  or  restraint.  He  gambols ;  he 
grins  ;  he  shakes  the  sides  ;  he  points  the  finger ;  he 
turns  up  the  nose ;  he  shoots  out  the  tongue.  The 
manner  of  Swift  is  the  very  opposite  to  this.  He 
moves  laughter,  but  never  joins  in  it.  He  appears 
in  his  works  such  as  he  appeared  in  society.  All  the 
company  are  convulsed  with  merriment,  while  the 
Dean,  the  author  of  all  the  mirth,  preserves  an  in- 
vincible gravity,  and  even  sourness  of  aspect,  and 
gives  utterance  to  the  most  eccentric  and  ludicrous 
fancies,  with  the  air  of  a  man  reading  the  commina- 
tion  service. 

"The  manner  of  Addison  is  as  remote  from  that  of 
Swift  as  from  that  of  Voltaire.  He  neither  laughs 
out  like  the  French  wit,  nor,  like  the  Irish  wit,  throws 
a  double  portion  of  severity  into  his  countenance 
while  laughing  inwardly ;  but  preserves  a  look  pecul- 
iarly his  own,  a  look  of  demure  serenity,  disturbed 
only  by  an  arch  sparkle  of  the  eye,  an  almost  imper- 
ceptible elevation  of  the  brow,  an  almost  impercepti- 
ble curl  of  the  lip.  His  tone  is  never  that  either  of  a 
Jack  Pudding  or  of  a  Cynic.  It  is  that  of  a  gentle- 
man, in  whom  the  quickest  sense  of  the  ridiculous 
is  constantly  tempered  by  good  nature  and  good 
breeding. 

We  own  that  the  humor  of  Addison  is,  in  our 
opinion,  of  a  more  delicate  flavor  than  the  humor  of 
either  Swift  or  Voltaire.  Thus  much,  at  least,  is  cer- 
tain, that  both  Swift  and  Voltaire  have  been  success- 
fully mimicked,  and  that  no  man  has  yet  been  able  to 


1 84  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

mimic  Addison.  The  letter  of  the  Abbe  Coyer  to 
Pansophe  is  Voltaire  all  over,  and  imposed,  during  a 
long  time,  on  the  Academicians  of  Paris.  There  are 
passages  in  Arbuthnofs  satirical  works  which  we,  at 
least,  cannot  distinguish  from  Swift's  best  writing. 
But  of  the  many  eminent  men  who  have  made  Addi- 
son their  model,  though  several  have  copied  his  mere 
diction  with  happy  effect,  none  have  been  able  to 
catch  the  tone  of  his  pleasantry.  In  the  World,  in 
the  Connoisseur,  in  the  Mirror,  in  the  Lounger,  there 
are  numerous  papers  written  in  obvious  imitation  of 
his  Tatlers  and  Spectators.  Most  of  these  papers 
have  some  merit :  many  are  very  lively  and  amusing ; 
but  there  is  not  a  single  one  which  could  be  passed 
off  as  Addison's  on  a  critic  of  the  smallest  perspicacity. 
But  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  Addison  from 
Swift,  from  Voltaire,  from  almost  all  the  other  great 
masters  of  ridicule,  is  the  grace,  the  nobleness,  the 
moral  purity,  which  we  find  even  in  his  merriment. 
Severity,  gradually  hardening  and  darkening  into  mis- 
anthropy, characterizes  the  works  of  Swift.  The 
nature  of  Voltaire  was,  indeed,  not  inhuman ;  but  he 
venerated  nothing.  Neither  in  the  masterpieces  of 
art  nor  in  the  purest  examples  of  virtue,  neither  in  the 
Great  First  Cause,  nor  in  the  awful  enigma  of  the 
grave,  could  he  see  anything  but  subjects  for  drollery. 
The  more  solemn  and  august  the  theme,  the  more 
monkey-like  was  his  grimacing  and  chattering.  The 
mirth  of  Swift  is  the  mirth  of  Mephistopheles ;  the 
mirth  of  Voltaire  is  the  mirth  of  Puck.  If,  as  Soame 
Jenyns  oddly  imagined,  a  portion  of  the  happiness  of 
Seraphim  and  just  men  made  perfect  be  derived  from 
an  exquisite  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  their  mirth 
must  surely  be  none  other  than  the  mirth  of  Addison  ; 


ADDISON.  185 

a  mirth  consistent  with  tender  compassion  for  all  that 
is  frail,  and  with  profound  reverence  for  all  that  is 
sublime.  Nothing  great,  nothing  amiable,  no  moral 
duty,  no  doctrine  of  natural  or  revealed  religion,  has 
ever  been  associated  by  Addison  with  any  degrading 
idea.  His  humanity  is  without  a  parallel  in  literary 
history.  The  highest  proof  of  virtue  is  to  possess 
boundless  power  without  abusing  it.  No  kind  of 
power  is  more  formidable  than  the  power  of  making 
men  ridiculous  ;  and  that  power  Addison  possessed 
in  boundless  measure.  How  grossly  that  power  was 
abused  by  Swift  and  by  Voltaire  is  well  known.  But 
of  Addison  it  may  be  confidently  affirmed  that  he  has 
blackened  no  man's  character,  nay,  that  it  would  be 
difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  in  all  the  volumes 
which  he  has  left  us  a  single  taunt  which  can  be  called 
ungenerous  or  unkind.  Yet  he  had  detractors,  whose 
malignity  might  have  seemed  to  justify  as  terrible  a 
revenge  as  that  which  men,  not  superior  to  him  in 
genius,  wreaked  on  Bettesworth  and  on  Franc  de 
Pompignan.  He  was  a  politician ;  he  was  the  best 
writer  of  his  party ;  he  lived  in  times  of  fierce  excite- 
ment, in  times  when  persons  of  high  character  and 
station  stooped  to  scurrility  such  as  is  now  practised 
only  by  the  basest  of  mankind.  Yet  no  provocation 
and  no  example  could  induce  him  to  return  railing  for 
railing. 

Of  the  service  which  his  essays  rendered  to  moral- 
ity it  is  difficult  to  speak  too  highly.  It  is  true,  that, 
when  the  Tatler  appeared,  that  age  of  outrageous 
profaneness  and  licentiousness  which  followed  the 
Restoration  had  passed  away.  Jeremy  Collier  had 
shamed  the  theatres  into  something  which,  compared 
with  the  excesses  of  Etherege  and  Wycherley,  might 


1 86  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

be  called  decency.  Yet  there  still  lingered  in  the  pub- 
lic mind  a  pernicious  notion  that  there  was  some  con- 
nection between  genius  and  profligacy,  between  the 
domestic  virtues  and  the  sullen  formality  of  the  Puri- 
tans. That  error  it  is  the  glory  of  Addison  to  have 
dispelled.  He  taught  the  nation  that  the  faith  and 
the  morality  of  Hale  and  Tillotson  might  be  found  in 
company  with  wit  more  sparkling  than  the  wit  of 
Congreve,  and  with  humor  richer  than  the  humor  of 
Vanbrngh.  So  effectually,  indeed,  did  he  retort  on 
vice  the  mockery  which  had  recently  been  directed 
against  virtue,  that,  since  his  time,  the  open  violation 
of  decency  has  always  been  considered  among  us  as 
the  mark  of  a  fool.  And  this  revolution,  the  greatest 
and  most  salutary  ever  effected  by  any  satirist,  he 
accomplished,  be  it  remembered,  without  Avriting  one 
personal  lampoon. 

In  the  early  contributions  of  Addison  to  the  Tat- 
ler  his  peculiar  powers  were  not  fully  exhibited. 
Yet  from  the  first,  his  superiority  to  all  his  coadjutors 
was  evident.  Some  of  his  later  Tatlers  are  fully  equal 
to  anything  that  he  ever  wrote.  Among  the  portraits, 
we  most  admire  Tom  Folio,  Ned  Softly,  and  the  Polit- 
ical Upholsterer.  The  proceedings  of  the  Court  of 
Honor,  the  Thermometer  of  Zeal,  the  story  of  the 
Frozen  Words,  the  Memoirs  of  the  Shilling,  are  excel- 
lent specimens  of  that  ingenious  and  lively  species  of 
fiction  in  which  Addison  excelled  all  men.  There  is 
one  still  better  paper  of  the  same  class.  But  though 
that  paper,  a  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago,  was 
probably  thought  as  edifying  as  one  of  Smalridge's 
sermons,  we  dare  not  indicate  it  to  the  squeamish 
readers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

During  the  session  of  Parliament  which  commenced 


ADDISON.  187 

in  November,  1709,  and  which  the  impeachment  of 
Sacheverell  has  made  memorable,  Addison  appears  to 
have  resided  in  London.  The  Tatler  was  now  more 
popular  than  any  periodical  paper  had  ever  been ; 
and  his  connection  with  it  was  generally  known.  It 
was  not  known,  however,  that  almost  everything  good 
in  the  Tatler  was  his.  The  truth  is,  that  the  fifty  or 
sixty  numbers  which  we  owe  to  him  were  not  merely 
the  best,  but  so  decidedly  the  best  that  any  five  of 
them  are  more  valuable  than  all  the  two  hundred  num- 
bers in  which  he  had  no  share. 

He  required,  at  this  time,  all  the  solace  which  he 
could  derive  from  literary  success.  The  Queen  had 
always  disliked  the  Whigs.  She  had  during  some 
years  disliked  the  Marlborough  family.  But,  reigning 
by  a  disputed  title,  she  could  not  venture  directly  to 
oppose  herself  to  a  majority  of  both  Houses  of  Parlia- 
ment ;  and,  engaged  as  she  was  in  a  war  on  the  event 
of  which  her  own  Crown  was  staked,  she  could  not  ven- 
ture to  disgrace  a  great  and  successful  general.  But 
at  length,  in  the  year  17 10,  the  causes  which  had  re- 
strained her  from  showing  her  aversion  to  the  Low 
Church  party  ceased  to  operate.  The  trial  of  Sachev- 
erell produced  an  outbreak  of  public  feeling  scarcely 
less  violent  than  the  outbreaks  which  we  can  our- 
selves remember  in  1820,  and  in  1831.  The  country 
gentlemen,  the  country  clergymen,  the  rabble  of  the 
towns,  were  all,  for  once,  on  the  same  side.  It  was 
clear  that,  if  a  general  election  took  place  before  the 
excitement  abated,  the  Tories  would  have  a  majority. 
The  services  of  Marlborough  had  been  so  splendid 
.that  they  were  no  longer  necessary.  The  Queen's 
throne  was  secure  from  all  attacks  on  the  part  of 
Lewis.     Indeed,  it  seemed  much  more  likely  that  the 


1 88  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

English  and  German  armies  would  divide  the  spoils 
of  Versailles  and  Mjirji  than  that  a  Marshal  of  France 
would  bring  back  the  Pretender  to  St.  James's. 
The  Queen,  acting  by  the  advice  of  Harley,  deter- 
mined to  dismiss  her  servants.  In  June  the  change 
commenced.  Sunderland  was  the  first  who  fell. 
The  Tories  exulted  over  his  fall.  The  Whigs  tried, 
during  a  few  weeks,  to  persuade  themselves  that  her 
Majesty  had  acted  only  from  personal  dislike  to  the 
Secretary,  and  that  she  meditated  no  further  alteration. 
But.  early  in  August,  Godolphin  was  surprised  by  a 
letter  from  Anne,  which  directed  him  to  break  his 
white  staff.  Even  after  this  event,  the  irresolution  or 
dissimulation  of  Harley  kept  up  the  hopes  of  the 
Whigs  during  another  month :  and  then  the  ruin 
became  rapid  and  violent.  The  Parliament  was  dis- 
solved. The  ministers  were  turned  out.  The  Tories 
were  called  to  office.  The  tide  of  popularity  ran  vio- 
lently in  favor  of  the  High  Church  party.  That  party, 
feeble  in  the  late  House  of  Commons,  was  now  irresis- 
tible. The  power  which  the  Tories  had  thus  suddenly 
acquired,  they  used  with  blind  and  stupid  ferocity. 
The  howl  which  the  whole  pack  set  up  for  prey  and 
for  blood  appalled  even  him  who  had  roused  and  un- 
chained them.  When,  at  this  distance  of  time,  we 
calmly  review  the  conduct  of  the  discarded  ministers, 
we  cannot  but  feel  a  movement  of  indignation  at  the 
injustice  with  which  they  were  treated.  No  body  of 
men  had  ever  administered  the  government  with 
more  energy,  ability,  and  moderation  ;  and  their  suc- 
cess had  been  proportioned  to  their  wisdom.  They 
had  saved  Holland  and  Germany.  They  had  hum- 
bled France.  They  had,  as  it  seemed,  all  but  torn 
Spain  from  the  house  of  Bourbon.     They  had  made 


ADDISON.  189 

England  the  first  power  in  Europe.  At  home  they 
had  united  England  and  Scotland.  They  had  re- 
spected the  rights  of  conscience  and  the  liberty  of 
the  subjects.  They  retired,  leaving  their  country  at 
the  height  of  prosperity  and  glory.  And  yet  they 
were  pursued  to  their  retreat  by  such  a  roar  of  obloquy 
as  was  never  raised  against  the  government  which 
threw  away  thirteen  colonies,  or  against  the  govern- 
ment which  sent  a  gallant  army  to  perish  in  the 
ditches  of  Walcheren.  1 

None  of  the  Whigs  suffered  more  in  the  general 
wreck  than  Addison.  He  had  just  sustained  some 
heavy  pecuniary  losses,  of  the  nature  of  which  we  are 
imperfectly  informed,  when  his  Secretaryship  was 
taken  from  him.  He  had  reason  to  believe  that  he 
should  also  be  deprived  of  the  small  Irish  office  which 
he  held  by  patent.  He  had  just  resigned  his  Fellow- 
ship. It  seems  probable  that  he  had  already  ventured 
to  raise  his  eyes  to  a  great  lady,  and  that,  while  his 
political  friends  were  in  power,  and  while  his  own 
fortunes  were  rising,  he  had  been,  in  the  phrase  of  the 
romances  which  were  then  fashionable,  permitted  to 
hope.  But  Mr.  Addison,  the  ingenious  writer,  and 
Mr.  Addison,  the  Chief  Secretary,  were,  in  her  lady- 
ship's opinion,  two  very  different  persons.  All  these 
calamities  united,  however,  could  not  disturb  the 
serene  cheerfulness  of  a  mind  conscious  of  innocence, 
and  rich  in  its  own  wealth.  He  told  his  friends,  with 
smiling  resignation,  that  they  ought  to  admire  his 
philosophy,  that  he  had  lost  at  once  his  fortune,  his 
place,  his  fellowship,  and  his  mistress,  that  he  must 
think  of  turning  tutor  again,  and  yet  that  his  spirits 
were  as  good  as  ever. 

He  had  one  consolation.    Of  the  unpopularity  which 


190  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

his  friends  had  incurred,  he  had  no  share.  Such  was 
the  esteem  with  which  he  was  regarded  that,  while  the 
most  violent  measures  were  taken  for  the  purpose  of 
forcing  Tory  members  on  Whig  corporations,  he  was 
returned  to  Parliament  without  even  a  contest.  Swift, 
who  was  now  in  London,  and  who  had  already  deter- 
mined on  quitting  the  Whigs,  wrote  to  Stella  in  these 
remarkable  words  :  n  The  Tories  carry  it  among  the 
new  members  six  to  one.  Mr.  Addison's  election  has 
passed  easy  and  undisputed  ;  and  I  believe  if  he  had  a 
mind  to  be  king  he  would  hardly  be  refused.'" 

The  good-will  with  which  the  Tories  regarded 
Addison  is  the  more  honorable  to  him,  because  it  had 
not  been  purchased  by  any  concession  on  his  part. 
During  the  general  election  he  published  a  political 
Journal  entitled  the  Whig  Examiner.  Of  that  Journal, 
it  may  be  sufficient  to  say  that  Johnson,  in  spite  of  his 
strong  political  prejudices,  pronounced  it  to  be  superior 
in  wit  to  any  of  Swift's  writings  on  the  other  side. 
When  it  ceased  to  appear,  Swift,  in  a  letter  to  Stella, 
expressed  his  exultation  at  the  death  of  so  formidable 
an  antagonist.  "  He  might  well  rejoice,*'  says  Johnson, 
••  at  the  death  of  that  which  he  could  not  have  killed.1' 
"  On  no  occasion,"  he  adds,  ';  was  the  genius  of  Addi- 
son more  vigorously  exerted,  and  on  none  did  the 
superiority  of  his  powers  more  evidently  appear.'1 

The  only  use  which  Addison  appears  to  have  made 
of  the  favor  with  which  he  was  regarded  by  the  Tories 
was  to  save  some  of  his  friends  from  the  general  ruin 
of  the  Whig  party.  He  felt  himself  to  be  in  a  situation 
which  made  it  his  duty  to  take  2  decided  part  in  poli- 
tics. But  the  case  of  Steele  and  Ambrose  Philips  was 
different.  For  Philips,  Addison  even  condescended 
tc  solicit,  with  what  success  we  have  not  ascertained. 


ADDISON.  191 

Steele  held  two  places.  He  was  Gazetteer,  and  he 
was  also  a  Commissioner  of  Stamps.  The  Gazette 
was  taken  from  him.  But  he  was  suffered  to  retain 
his  place  in  the  Stamp  Office,  on  an  implied  under- 
standing that  he  should  not  be  active  against  the  new 
government ;  and  he  was,  during  more  than  two  years, 
induced  by  Addison  to  observe  this  armistice  with 
tolerable  fidelity. 

Isaac  Bickerstaff  accordingly  became  silent  upon 
politics,  and  the  article  of  news  which  had  once  formed 
about  one  third  of  his  paper,  altogether  disappeared. 
The  Tatler  had  completely  changed  its  character.  It 
was  now  nothing  but  a  series  of  essays  on  books, 
morals,  and  manners.  Steele  therefore  resolved  to 
bring  it  to  a  close,  and  to  commence  a  new  work  on  an 
improved  plan.  It  was  announced  that  this  new  work 
would  be  published  daily.  The  undertaking  was  gener- 
ally regarded  as  bold,  or  rather  rash  ;  but  the  event 
amply  justified  the  confidence  with  which  Steele  relied 
on  the  fertility  of  Addison's  genius.  On  the  second 
of  January,  .171 1,  appeared  the  last  Tatler.  At  the 
begining  of  March  following  appeared  the  first  of  an 
incomparable  series  of  papers,  containing  observations 
on  life  and  literature  by  an  imaginary  Spectator. 

The  Spectator  himself  was  conceived  and  drawn  by 
Addison ;  and  it  is  not  easy  to  doubt  that  the  portrait 
was  meant  to  be  in  some  features  a  likeness  of  the 
painter.  The  Spectator  is  a  gentleman  who,  after 
passing  a  studious  youth  at  the  university,  has  trav- 
elled on  classic  ground,  and  has  bestowed  much  atten- 
tion on  curious  points  of  antiquity.  He  has,  on  his 
return,  fixed  his  residence  in  London,  and  has  observed 
all  the  forms  of  life  which  are  to  be  found  in  that  great 
city,   has   daily  listened   to    the  wits   of  Will's,  has 


192  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

smoked  with  the  philosophers  of  the  Grecian,  and  has 
mingled  with  the  parsons  at  Child's,  and  with  the  poli- 
ticians at  the  St.  James's.  In  the  morning,  he  often 
listens  to  the  hum  of  the  Exchange ;  in  the  evening, 
his  face  is  constantly  to  be  seen  in  the  pit  of  Drury 
Lane  theatre-  But  an  insurmountable  bashfulness  pre- 
vents him  from  opening  his  mouth,  except  in  a  small 
circle  of  intimate  friends. 

These  friends  were  first  sketched  by  Steele.  Four 
of  the  club,  the  templar,  the  clergyman,  the  soldier, 
and  the  merchant,  were  uninteresting  figures,  fit  only 
for  a  background.  But  the  other  two,  an  old  country 
baronet  and  an  old  town  rake,  though  not  delineated 
with  a  very  delicate  pencil,  had  some  good  strokes. 
Addison  took  the  rude  outlines  into  his  own  hands, 
retouched  them,  colored  them,  and  is  in  truth  the 
creator  of  the  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  and  the  Will 
Honeycomb  with  whom  we  are  all  familiar. 

The  plan  of  the  Spectator  must  be  allowed  to  be 
both  original  and  eminently  happy.  Ever)-  valuable 
essay  in  the  series  may  be  read  with  pleasure  sepa- 
rately ;  yet  the  five  or  six  hundred  essays  form  a  whole, 
and  a  whole  which  has  the  interest  of  a  novel.  It 
must  be  remembered,  too,  that  at  that  time  no  novel, 
giving  a  lively  and  powerful  picture  of  the  common  life 
and  manners  of  England,  had  appeared.  Richardson 
was  working  as  a  compositor.  Fielding  was  robbing 
birds1  nests.  Smollett  was  not  yet  born.  The  nar- 
rative, therefore,  which  connects  together  the  Specta- 
tor's Essays,  gave  to  our  ancestors  their  first  taste  of 
an  exquisite  and  untried  pleasure.  That  narrative 
was  indeed  constructed  with  no  art  or  labor.  The 
events  were  such  events  as  occur  every  day.  Sir 
Roger  comes   up   to   town   to   see   Eugenio,  as   the 


ADDISON.  193 

worthy  baronet  always  calls  Prince  Eugene,  goes 
with  the  Spectator  on  the  water  to  Spring  Gardens, 
walks  among  the  tombs  in  the  Abbey,  and  is  frightened 
by  the  Mohawks,  but  conquers  his  apprehension  so  far 
as  to  go  to  the  theatre  when  the  Distressed  Mother  is 
acted.  The  Spectator  pays  a  visit  in  the  summer  to 
Coverley  Hall,  is  charmed  with  the  old  house,  the  old 
butler,  and  the  old  chaplain,  eats  a  jack  caught  by 
Will  Wimble,  rides  to  the  assizes,  and  hears  a  point 
of  law  discussed  by  Tom  Touchy.  At  last  a  letter 
from  the  honest  butler  brings  to  the  club  the  news 
that  Sir  Roger  is  dead.  Will  Honeycomb  marries 
and  reforms  at  sixty.  The  club  breaks  up ;  and  the 
Spectator  resigns  his  functions.  Such  events  can 
hardly  be  said  to  form  a  plot ;  yet  they  are  related 
with  such  truth,  such  grace,  such  wit,  such  humor, 
such  pathos,  such  knowledge  of  the  human  heart, 
such  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  that  they 
charm  us  on  the  hundredth  perusal.  We  have  not  the 
least  doubt  that  if  Addison  had  written  a  novel,  on  an 
extensive  plan,  it  would  have  been  superior  to  any 
that  we  possess.  As  it  is,  he  is  entitled  to  be  consid- 
ered not  only  as  the  greatest  of  the  English  essayists, 
but  as  the  forerunner  of  the  great  English  novelists. 

We  say  this  of  Addison  alone ;  for  Addison  is  the 
Spectator.  About  three  sevenths  of  the  work  aje^. 
his  ;  and  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say,  that  his  worst 
essay  is  as  good  as  the  best  essay  of  any  of  his  coadju- 
tors. His  best  essays  approach  near  to  absolute  per- 
fection ;  nor  is  their  excellence  more  wonderful  than 
their  variety.  His  invention  never  seems  to  flag; 
nor  is  he  ever  under  the  necessity  of  repeating  him- 
self, or  of  wearing  out  a  subject.  There  are  no  dregs 
in  his  wine.     He  regales  us  after  the  fashion  of  that 


194  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

prodigal  nabob  who  held  that  there  was  only  one 
good  glass  in  a  bottle.  As  soon  as  we  have  tasted 
the  first  sparkling  foam  of  a  jest,  it  is  withdrawn,  and 
a  fresh  draught  of  nectar  is  at  our  lips.  On  the 
Monday  we  have  an  allegory  as  lively  and  ingenious 
as  Lucian's  Auction  of  Lives ;  on  the  Tuesday  an 
Eastern  apologue,  as  richly  colored  as  the  Tales  of 
Scherezade ;  on  the  Wednesday,  a  character  de- 
scribed with  the  skill  of  a  La  Bruyere  ;  on  the  Thurs- 
day, a  scene  from  common  life,  equal  to  the  best 
chapters  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield ;  on  the  Friday, 
some  sly  Horatian  pleasantry  on  fashionable  follies, 
on  hoops,  patches,  or  puppet  shows ;  and  on  the 
Saturday  a  religious  meditation,  which  will  bear  a 
comparison  with  the  finest  passages  in  Massillon. 

It  is  dangerous  to  select  where  there  is  so  much 
that  deserves  the  highest  praise.  We  will  venture, 
however,  to  say,  that  any  person  who  wishes  to  form 
a  notion  of  the  extent  and  variety  of  Addison's  powers, 
will  do  well  to  read  at  one  sitting  the  following  papers,'  v 
the  two  Visits  to  the  Abbey,  the  Visit  to  the  Exchange, 
the  Journal  of  the  Retired  Citizen,  the  Vision  of 
Mirza,  the  Transmigrations  of  Pug  the  Monkey,  and 
the  Death  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.1 

The  least  valuable  of  Addison's  contributions  to 
the  Spectator  are,  in  the  judgment  of  our  age,  his 
critical  papers.  Yet  his  critical  papers  are  always 
luminous,  and  often  ingenious.  The  very  worst  of 
them  must  be  regarded  as  creditable  to  him,  when 
the  character  of  the  school  in  which  he  had  been 
trained  is  fairly  considered.     The  best  of  them  were 

1  Nos.  26,  329,  69,  317,  159,  343,  517.  These  papers  are  all  in  the 
first  seven  volumes.  The  eighth  must  be  considered  as  a  separate 
work. 


ADDISON.  195 

much  too  good  for  his  readers.  In  truth,  he  was  not 
so  far  behind  our  generation  as  he  was  before  his  own. 
No  essays  in  the  Spectator  were  more  censured  and 
derided  than  those  in  which  he  raised  his  voice  against 
the  contempt  with  which  our  fine  old  ballads  were 
regarded,  and  showed  the  scoffers  that  the  same  gold 
which,  burnished  and  polished,  gives  lustre  to  the 
/Eneid  and  the  Odes  of  Horace,  is  mingled  with  the 
rude  dross  of  Chevy  Chace. 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  success  of  the  Spectator 
should  have  been  such  as  no  similar  work  has  ever 
obtained.  The  number  of  copies  daily  distributed 
was  at  first  three  thousand.  It  subsequently  increased, 
and  had  risen  to  near  four  thousand  when  the  stamp 
tax  was  imposed.  That  tax  was  fatal  to  a  crowd  of 
journals.  The  Spectator,  however,  stood  its  ground, 
doubled  its  price,  and,  though  its  circulation  fell  off, 
still  yielded  a  large  revenue  both  to  the  state  and  to 
the  authors.  For  particular  papers,  the  demand  was 
immense  ;  of  some,  it  is  said,  twenty  thousand  copies 
were  required.  But  this  was  not  all.  To  have  the 
Spectator  served  up  every  morning  with  the  bphga 
and  rolls  was  a  luxury  for  the  few.  The  majority 
were  content  to  wait  till  essays  enough  had  appeared 
to  form  a  volume.  Ten  thousand  copies  of  each  vol- 
ume were  immediately  taken  off,  and  new  editions 
were  called  for.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the 
population  of  England  was  then  hardly  a  third  of 
what  it  now  is.  The  number  of  Englishmen  who 
were  in  the  habit  of  reading,  was  probably  not  a  sixth 
of  what  it  now  is.  A  shopkeeper  or  a  farmer  who 
found  any  pleasure  in  literature,  was  a  rarity.  Nay, 
there  was  doubtless  more  than  one  knight  of  the  shire 
whose  country  seat  did  not  contain  ten  books,  receipt 


196  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

books  and  books  on  farriery  included.  In  these  cir- 
cumstances, the  sale  of  the  Spectator  must  be  con- 
sidered as  indicating  a  popularity  quite  as  great  as 
that  of  the  most  successful  works  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott  and  Mr.  Dickens  in  our  own  time. 

At  the  close  of  171 2  the  Spectator  ceased  to  appear. 
It  was  probably  felt  that  the  short-faced  gentleman 
and  his  club  had  been  long  enough  before  the  town  ; 
and  that  it  was  time  to  withdraw  them,  and  to  re- 
place them  by  a  new  set  of  characters.  In  a  few 
weeks  the  first  number  of  the  Guardian  was  published. 
But  the  Guardian  was  unfortunate  both  in  its  birth 
and  in  its  death.  It  began  in  dulness  and  disappeared 
in  a  tempest  of  faction.  The  original  plan  was  bad. 
Addison  contributed  nothing  till  sixty-six  numbers 
had  appeared  ;  and  it  was  then  impossible  to  make 
the  Guardian  what  the  Spectator  had  been.  Nestor 
Ironside  and  the  Miss  Lizards  were  people  to  whom 
even  he  could  impart  no  interest.  He  could  only 
furnish  some  excellent  little  essays,  both  serious  and 
comic ;  and  this  he  did. 

Why  Addison  gave  no  assistance  to  the  Guardian 
during  the  first  two  months  of  its  existence,  is  a  ques- 
tion which  has  puzzled  the  editors  and  biographers, 
but  which  seems  to  us  to  admit  of  a  very  easy  solu- 
tion. He  was  then  engaged  in  bringing  his  Cato  on 
the  stage. 

The  first  four  acts  of  this  drama  had  been  lying  in 
his  desk  since  his  return  from  Italy.  His  modest 
and  sensitive  nature  shrank  from  the  risk  of  a  public 
and  shameful  failure  ;  and.  though  all  who  saw  the 
manuscript  were  loud  in  praise,  some  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  an  audience  might  become  impatient  even 
of  very  good  rhetoric,  and  advised  Addison  to  print 


ADDISON.  I97 

the  play  without  hazarding  a  representation.  At 
length,  after  many  fits  of  apprehension,  the  poet 
yielded  to  the  urgency  of  his  political  friends,  who 
hoped  that  the  public  would  discover  some  analogy 
between  the  followers  of  Caesar  and  the  Tories,  be- 
tween Sempronius  and  the  apostate  Whigs,  between 
Cato,  struggling  to  the  last  for  the  liberties  of  Rome, 
and  the  band  of  patriots  who  still  stood  firm  round 
Halifax  and  Wharton. 

Addison  gave  the  play  to  the  managers  of  Drury 
Lane  theatre,  without  stipulating  for  any  advantage 
to  himself.  They,  therefore,  thought  themselves 
bound  to  spare  no  cost  in  scenery  and  dresses.  The 
decorations,  it  is  true,  would  not  have  pleased  the 
skilful  eye  of  Mr.  Macready.  Juba's  waistcoat  blazed 
with  gold  lace ;  Marcia's  hoop  was  worthy  of  a  Duch- 
ess on  the  birthday  ;  and  Cato  wore  a  wig  worth  fifty 
guineas.  The  prologue  was  written  by  Pope,  and  is 
undoubtedly  a  dignified  and  spirited  composition. 
The  part  of  the  hero  was  excellently  played  by  Booth. 
Steele  undertook  to  pack  a  house.  The  boxes 
were  in  a  blaze  with  the  stars  of  the  Peers  in  Oppo- 
sition. The  pit  was  crowded  with  attentive  and 
friendly  listeners  from  the  Inns  of  Court  and  the 
literary  coffee-houses.  Sir  Gilbert  Heathcote,  Gov- 
ernor of  the  Bank  of  England,  was  at  the  head  of 
a  powerful  body  of  auxiliaries  from  the  city,  warm 
men  and  true  Whigs,  but  better  known  at  Jonathan's 
and  Garraway^  than  in  the  haunts  of  wits  and  critics. 

These  precautions  were  quite  superfluous.  The 
Tories,  as  a  body,  regarded  Addison  with  no  unkind 
feelings.  Nor  was  it  for  their  interest,  professing,  as 
they  did,  profound  reverence  for  law  and  prescription, 
and  abhorrence  both  of  popular  insurrections  and  of 


I98  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

standing  armies,  to  appropriate  to  themselves  reflec- 
tions thrown  on  the  great  military  chief  and  dema- 
gogue, who,  with  the  support  of  the  legions  and  of 
the  common  people,  subverted  all  the  ancient  institu- 
tions of  his  country.  Accordingly,  every  shout  that 
was  raised  by  the  members  of  the  Kit  Cat  was  echoed 
by  the  High  Churchmen  of  the  October;  and  the 
curtain  at  length  fell  amidst  thunders  of  unanimous 
applause. 

The  delight  and  admiration  of  the  town  were 
described  by  the  Guardian  in  terms  which  we  might 
attribute  to  partiality,  were  it  not  that  the  Examiner, 
the  organ  of  the  Ministry,  held  similar  language. 
The  Tories,  indeed,  found  much  to  sneer  at  in  the 
conduct  of  their  opponents.  Steele  had  on  this,  as 
on  other  occasions,  shown  more  zeal  than  taste  or 
judgment.  The  honest  citizens  who  marched  under 
the  orders  of  Sir  Gibby,  as  he  was  facetiously  called, 
probably  knew  better  when  to  buy  and  when  to  sell 
stock  than  when  to  clap  and  when  to  hiss  at  a  play, 
and  incurred  some  ridicule  by  making  the  hypocriti- 
cal Sempronius  their  favorite,  and  by  giving  to  his 
insincere  rants  louder  plaudits  than  they  bestowed 
on  the  temperate  eloquence  of  Cato.  Wharton,  too, 
who  had  the  incredible  effrontery  to  applaud  the  lines 
about  flying  from  prosperous  vice  and  from  the  power 
of  impious  men  to  a  private  station,  did  not  escape 
the  sarcasms  of  those  who  justly  thought  that  he 
could  fly  from  nothing  more  vicious  or  impious  than 
himself.  The  epilogue,  which  was  written  by  Garth, 
a  zealous  Whig,  was  severely  and  not  unreasonably 
censured  as  ignoble  and  out  of  place.  But  Addison 
was  described,  even  by  the  bitterest  Tory  writers,  as  a 
gentleman  of  wit  and  virtue,  in  whose  friendship  many 


ADDISON.  199 

persons  of  both  parties  were  happy,  and  whose  name 
ought  not  to  be  mixed  up  with  factious  squabbles. 

Of  the  jests  by  which  the  triumph  of  the  Whig 
party  was  disturbed,  the  most  severe  and  happy  was 
Bolingbroke's.  Between  two  acts,  he  sent  for  Booth 
to  his  box,  and  presented  him,  before  the  whole 
theatre,  with  a  purse  of  fifty  guineas  for  defending 
the  cause  of  liberty  so  well  against  a  perpetual  Dicta- 
tor. This  was  a  pungent  allusion  to  the  attempt 
which  Marlborough  had  made,  not  long  before  his 
fall,  to  obtain  a  patent  creating  him  Captain  General 
for  life. 

It  was  April ;  and  in  April,  a  hundred  and  thirty 
years  ago,  the  London  season  was  thought  to  be  far 
advanced.  During  a  whole  month,  however,  Cato 
was  performed  to  overflowing  houses,  and  brought 
into  the  treasury  of  the  theatre  twice  the  gains  of  an 
ordinary  spring.  In  the  summer  the  Drury  Lane 
company  went  down  to  the  Act  at  Oxford,  and  there, 
before  an  audience  which  retained  an  affectionate 
remembrance  of  Addison's  accomplishments  and  vir- 
tues, his  tragedy  was  enacted  during  several  days. 
The  gownsmen  began  to  besiege  the  theatre  in  the 
forenoon,  and  by  one  in  the  afternoon  all  the  seats 
were  filled. 

About  the  merits  of  the  piece  which  had  so  extraor- 
dinary an  effect,  the  public,  we  suppose,  has  made  up 
its  mind.  To  compare  it  with  the  masterpieces  of  the 
Attic  stage,  with  the  great  English  dramas  of  the 
time  of  Elizabeth,  or  even  with  the  productions  of 
Schiller's  manhood,  would  be  absurd  indeed.  Yet 
it  contains  excellent  dialogue  and  declamation,  and, 
among  plays  fashioned  on  the  French  model,  must 
be  allowed  to  rank  high ;  not  indeed  with  Athalie  or 


200  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Saul ;  but,  we  think  not  below  Cinan,  and  certainly 
above  any  other  English  tragedy  of  the  same  school, 
above  many  of  the  plays  of  Corneille,  above  many  of 
the  plays  of  Voltaire  and  Alfieri,  and  above  some 
plays  of  Racine.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  have  little 
doubt  that  Cato  did  as  much  as  the  Tatlers,  Specta- 
tors, and  Freeholders  united,  to  raise  Addison's  fame 
among  his  contemporaries. 

The  modesty  and  good  nature  of  the  successful 
dramatist  had  tamed  even  the  malignity  of  faction. 
But  literary  envy,  it  should  seem,  is  a  fiercer  passion 
than  party  spirit.  It  was  by  a  zealous  Whig  that  the 
fiercest  attack  on  the  Whig  tragedy  was  made.  John 
Dennis  published  Remarks  on  Cato,  which  were 
written  with  some  acuteness  and  with  much  coarse- 
ness and  asperity.  Addison  neither  defended  him- 
self nor  retaliated.  On  many  points  he  had  an 
excellent  defence ;  and  nothing  would  have  been 
easier  than  to  retaliate  ;  for  Dennis  had  written  bad 
odes,  bad  tragedies,  bad  comedies  :  he  had,  moreover, 
a  larger  share  than  most  men  of  those  infirmities  and 
eccentricities  which  excite  laughter ;  and  Addison's 
power  of  turning  either  an  absurd  book  or  an  absurd 
man  into  ridicule  was  unrivalled.  Addison,  however, 
serenely  conscious  of  his  superiority,  looked  with  pity 
on  his  assailant,  whose  temper,  naturally  irritable  and 
gloomy,  had  been  soured  by  want,  by  controversy, 
and  by  literary  failures. 

But  among  the  young  candidates  for  Addison's 
favor,  there  was  one  distinguished  by  talents  from  the 
rest,  and  distinguished,  we  fear,  not  less  by  malignity 
and  insincerity.  Pope  was  only  twenty-five.  But  his 
powers  had  expanded  to  their  full  maturity ;  and  his 
best  poem,  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  had  recently  been 


ADDISON.  201 

published.  Of  his  genius.  Addison  had  always  ex- 
pressed high  admiration.  But  Addison  had  early  dis- 
cerned, what  might  indeed  have  been  discerned  by 
an  eye  less  penetrating  than  his,  that  the  diminutive, 
crooked,  sickly  boy  was  eager  to  revenge  himself  on 
society  for  the  unkindness  of  nature.  In  the  Spectator, 
the  Essay  on  Criticism  had  been  praised  with  cordial 
warmth  ;  but  a  gentle  hint  had  been  added,  that  the 
writer  of  so  excellent  a  poem  would  have  done  well 
to  avoid  ill-natured  personalities.  Pope,  though  evi- 
dently more  galled  by  the  censure  than  gratified  by 
the  praise,  returned  thanks  for  the  admonition,  and 
promised  to  profit  by  it.  The  two  writers  continued 
to  exchange  civilities,  counsel,  and  small  good  offices. 
Addison  publicly  extolled  Pope's  miscellaneous  pieces  ; 
and  Pope  furnished  Addison  with  a  prologue.  This 
did  not  last  long.  Pope  hated  Dennis,  whom  he 
had  injured  without  provocation.  The  appearance  of 
the  Remarks  on  Cato  gave  the  irritable  poet  an 
opportunity  of  venting  his  malice  under  the  show  of 
friendship ;  and  such  an  opportunity  could  not  but" 
be  welcomed  to  a  nature  which  was  implacable  in 
enmity,  and  which  always  preferred  the  tortuous.  tp_ 
the  straight  path.  He  published,  accordingly,  the 
Narrative  of  the  Frenzy  of  John  Dennis.  But  Pope 
had  mistaken  his  powers.  He  was  a  great  master  of 
invective  and  sarcasm ;  he  could  dissect  a  character 
in  terse  and  sonorous  couplets,  brilliant  with  antithe- 
sis :  but  of  dramatic  talent  he  was  altogether  destitute. 
If  he  had  written  a  lampoon  on  Dennis,  such  as  that 
on  Atticus,  or  that  on  Sporus,  the  old  grumbler  would 
have  been  crushed.  But  Pope  writing  dialogue 
resembled  —  to  borrow  Horace's  imagery  and  his  own 
—  a  wolf  which,  instead  of  biting,   should   take   to 


202  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

kicking,  or  a  monkey  which  should  try  to  sting.  The 
narrative  is  utterly  contemptible.  Of  argument  there 
is  not  even  the  show ;  and  the  jests  are  such  as,  if 
they  were  introduced  into  a  farce,  would  call  forth  the 
hisses  of  the  shilling  gallery.  Dennis  raves  about 
the  drama ;  and  the  nurse  thinks  that  he  is  calling  for 
a  dram.  "  There  is,"  he  cries,  "  no  peripetia  in  the 
tragedy,  no  change  of  fortune,  no  change  at  all." 
"  Pray,  good  Sir,  be  not  angry,1'  says  the  old  woman  ; 
"  I'll  fetch  change.1'  This  is  not  exactly  the  pleas- 
antry of  Addison. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Addison  saw  through 
his  officious  zeal,  and  felt  himself  deeply  aggrieved 
by  it.  So  foolish  and  spiteful  a  pamphlet  could  do 
him  no  good,  and,  if  he  were  thought  to  have  any 
hand  in  it,  must  do  him  harm.  Gifted  with  incom- 
parable powers  of  ridicule,  he  had  never,  even  in 
self-defence,  used  those  powers  inhumanly  or  uncour- 
teously ;  and  he  was  not  disposed  to  let  others  make 
his  fame  and  his  interests  a  pretext  under  which  they 
might  commit  outrages  from  which  he  had  himself 
constantly  abstained.  He  accordingly  declared  that 
he  had  no  concern  in  the  Narrative,  that  he  disap- 
proved of  it,  and  that  if  he  answered  the  Remarks,  he 
would  answer  them  like  a  gentleman  ;  and  he  took  care 
to  communicate  this  to  Dennis.  Pope  was  bitterly 
mortified ;  and  to  this  transaction  we  are  inclined  to 
ascribe  the  hatred  with  which  he  ever  after  regarded 
Addison. 

In  September,  17 13,  the  Guardian  ceased  to  appear. 
Steele  had  gone  mad  about  politics.  A  general  elec- 
tion had  just  taken  place  :  he  had  been  chosen  mem- 
ber for  Stockbridge ;  and  he  fully  expected  to  play  a 
first  part  in  Parliament.    The  immense  success  of  the 


ADDISON.  203 

Tatler  and  Spectator  had  turned  his  head.  He  had 
been  the  editor  of  both  those  papers,  and  was  not 
aware  how  entirely  they  owed  their  influence  and 
popularity  to  the  genius  of  his  friend.  His  spirits, 
always  violent,  were  now  excited  by  vanity,  ambition, 
and  faction,  to  such  a  pitch  that  he  every  day  com- 
mitted some  offence  against  good  sense  and  good 
taste.  All  the  discreet  and  moderate  members  of  his 
own  party  regretted  and  condemned  his  folly.  "  I 
am  in  a  thousand  troubles,"  Addison  wrote,  "  about 
poor  Dick,  and  wish  that  his  zeal  for  the  public  may 
not  be  ruinous  to  himself.  But  he  has  sent  me  word 
that  he  has  determined  to  go  on,  and  that  any  advice 
I  may  give  him  in  this  particular  will  have  no  weight 
with  him." 

Steele  set  up  a  political  paper  called  the  English- 
man, which,  as  it  was  not  supported  by  contributions 
from  Addison,  completely  failed.  By  this  work,  by 
some  other  writings  of  the  same  kind,  and  by  the  airs 
which  he  gave  himself  at  the  first  meeting  of  the  new 
Parliament,  he  made  the  Tories  so  angry  that  they 
determined  to  expel  him.  The  Whigs  stood  by  him 
gallantly,  but  were  unable  to  save  him.  The  vote  of 
expulsion  was  regarded  by  all  dispassionate  men  as  a 
tyrannical  exercise  of  the  power  of  the  majority. 
But  Steele's  violence  and  folly,  though  they  by  no 
means  justified  the  steps  which  his  enemies  took,  had 
completely  disgusted  his  friends ;  nor  did  he  ever 
regain  the  place  which  he  had  held  in  the  public 
estimation. 

Addison  about  this  time  conceived  the  design  of 
adding  an  eighth  volume  to  the  Spectator.  In  June, 
1 7 14,  the  first  number  of  the  new  series  appeared,  and 
during  about  six  months  three  papers  were  published 


204  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

weekly.  Nothing  can  be  more  striking  than  the  con- 
trast between  the  Englishman  and  the  eighth  volume 
of  the  Spectator,  between  Steele  without  Addison  and 
Addison  without  Steele.  The  Englishman  is  forgot- 
ten, the  eighth  volume  of  the  Spectator  contains,  per- 
haps, the  finest  essays,  both  serious  and  playful,  in 
the  English  language. 

Before  this  volume  was  completed,  the  death  of 
Anne  produced  an  entire  change  in  the  administra- 
tion of  public  affairs.  The  blow  fell  suddenly.  It 
found  the  Tory  party  distracted  by  internal  feuds,  and 
unprepared  for  any  great  effort.  Harley  had  just  been 
disgraced.  Bolingbroke,  it  was  supposed,  would  be 
the  chief  minister.  But  the  Queen  was  on  her  death- 
bed before  the  white  staff  had  been  given,  and  her 
last  public  act  was  to  deliver  it  with  a  feeble  hand  to 
the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury.  The  emergency  produced 
a  coalition  between  all  sections  of  public  men  who 
were  attached  to  the  Protestant  succession.  George 
the  First  was  proclaimed  without  opposition.  A 
Council,  in  which  the  leading  Whigs  had  seats,  took 
the  direction  of  affairs  till  the  new  King  should  arrive. 
The  first  act  of  the  Lords  Justices  was  to  appoint 
Addison  their  secretary. 

There  is  an  idle  tradition  that  he  was  directed  to 
prepare  a  letter  to  the  King,  that  he  could  not  satisfy 
himself  as  to  the  style  of  this  composition,  and  that 
me  Lords  Justices  called  in  a  clerk  who  at  once  did 
what  was  wanted.  It  is  not  strange  that  a  story  so 
flattering  to  mediocrity  should  be  popular ;  and  we 
are  sorry  to  deprive  dunces  of  their  consolation.  But 
the  truth  must  be  told.  It  was  well  observed  by  Sir 
James  Mackintosh,  whose  knowledge  of  these  times 
was   unequalled,  that  Addison  never,  in  any  official 


ADDISON.  205 

document,  affected  wit  or  eloquence,  and  that  his  de- 
spatches are,  without  exception,  remarkable  for  unpre- 
tending simplicity.  Everybody  who  knows  with  what 
ease  Addison's  finest  essays  were  produced  must  be 
convinced  that,  if  well-turned  phrases  had  been 
wanted,  he  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  finding 
them.  We  are,  however,  inclined  to  believe,  that 
the  story  is  not  absolutely  without  a  foundation.  It 
may  well  be  that  Addison  did  not  know,  till  he  had 
consulted  experienced  clerks  who  remembered  the 
times  when  William  the  Third  was  absent  on  the  Con- 
tinent, in  what  form  a  letter  from  the  Council  of 
Regency  to  the  King  ought  to  be  drawn.  We  think 
it  very  likely  that  the  ablest  statesmen  of  our  time, 
Lord  John  Russell,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  Lord  Palmerston,  1 
for  example,  would,  in  similar  circumstances,  be  found  I 
quite  as  ignorant.  Every  office  has  some  little  mys- 
teries which  the  dullest  man  may  learn  with  a  little 
attention,  and  which  the  greatest  man  cannot  possibly 
know  by  intuition.  One  paper  must  be  signed  by  the 
chief  of  the  department ;  another  by  his  deputy  ;  to  a 
third  the  royal  sign  manual  is  necessary.  One  com- 
munication is  to  be  registered,  and  another  is  not. 
One  sentence  must  be  in  black  ink,  and  another  in 
red  ink.  If  the  ablest  Secretary  for  Ireland  were 
moved  to  the  India  Board,  if  the  ablest  President 
of  the  India  Board  were  moved  to  the  War  Office, 
he  would  require  instructions  on  points  like  these ; 
and  we  do  not  doubt  that  Addison  required  such  in- 
struction when  he  became,  for  the  first  time,  Secretary 
to  the  Lords  Justices. 

George  the  First  took  possession  of  his  kingdom 
without  opposition.  A  new  ministry  was  formed,  and 
a  new   Parliament   favorable  to  the  Whigs   chosen. 


206  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Sunderland  was  appointed  Lord  Lieutenant  of  Ire- 
land ;  and  Addison  again  went  to  Dublin  as  Chief 
Secretary. 

At  Dublin  Swift  resided ;  and  there  was  much 
speculation  about  the  way  in  which  the  Dean  and  the 
Secretary  would  behave  towards  each  other.  The 
relations  which  existed  between  these  remarkable 
men  form  an  interesting  and  pleasing  portion  of 
literary  history.  They  had  early  attached  themselves 
to  the  same  political  party  and  to  the  same  patrons. 
While  Anne^  Whig  ministry  was  in  power,  the  visits 
of  Swift  to  London  and  the  official  residence  of  Addi- 
son in  Ireland  had  given  them  opportunities  of  know- 
ing each  other.  They  were  the  two  shrewdest  ob- 
servers of  their  age.  But  their  observations  on  each 
other  had  led  them  to  favorable  conclusions.  Swift 
did  full  justice  to  the  rare  powers  of  conversation 
which  were  latent  under  the  bashful  deportment  of 
Addison.  Addison,  on  the  other  hand,  discerned 
much  good  nature  under  the  severe  look  and  manner 
of  Swift;  and,  indeed,  the  Swift  of  1708  and  the 
Swift  of  1738  were  two  very  different  men. 

But  the  paths  of  the  two  friends  diverged  widely. 
The  Whig  statesmen  loaded  Addison  with  solid  bene- 
fits. They  praised  Swift,  asked  him  to  dinner,  and 
did  nothing  more  for  him.  His  profession  laid  him 
under  a  difficulty.  In  the  state  they  could  not  promote 
him  ;  and  they  had  reason  to  fear  that,  by  bestow- 
ing preferment  in  the  church  on  the  author  of  the  Tale 
of  a  Tub,  they  might  give  scandal  to  the  public,  which 
had  no  high  opinion  of  their  orthodoxy.  He  did  not 
make  fair  allowance  for  the  difficulties  which  prevented 
Halifax  and  Somers  from  serving  him,  thought  himself 
an  ill  used  man,  sacrificed  honor  and  consistency  to 


ADDISON.  207 

revenge,  joined  the  Tories,  and  became  their  most 
formidable  champion.  He  soon  found,  however,  that 
his  old  friends  were  less  to  blame  than  he  had  sup- 
posed. The  dislike  with  which  the  Queen  and  the 
heads  of  the  Church  regarded  him  was  insurmount- 
able ;  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he 
obtained  an  ecclesiastical  dignity  of  no  great  value, 
on  condition  of  fixing  his  residence  in  a  country  which 
he  detested. 

Difference  of  political  opinion  had  produced,  not 
indeed  a  quarrel,  but  a  coldness  between  Swift  and 
Addison.  They  at  length  ceased  altogether  to  see  each 
other.  Yet  there  was  between  them  a  tacit  compact 
like  that  between  the  hereditary  guests  in  the  Iliad. 

*E7xe<x  5'  dWrjXoji'  dXe<Jop.eda  ko.1  3l  5p.iXov 
HoWol  fxev  yap  ifxoi  Tp&es  kXcitoI  t   eTriicovpoi, 
JfLreiveiv,  op  K€  deos  ye  irbprj  xai  irocral  taxelw, 
UoXXol  5   aft  croi,  'Axauu,  evalpep.ev,  6v  /ce  dtivrjai. 

It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  who  calumniated  and 
insulted  nobody,  should  not  have  calumniated  or  in- 
sulted Swift.  But  it  is  remarkable  that  Swift,  to  whom 
neither  genius  nor  virtue  was  sacred,  and  who  generally 
seemed  to  find,  like  most  other  renegades,  a  peculiar 
pleasure  in  attacking  old  friends,  should  have  shown 
so  much  respect  and  tenderness  to  Addison. 

Fortune  had  now  changed.  The  accession  of  the 
House  of  Hanover  had  secured  in  England  the  liber- 
ties of  the  people,  and  in  Ireland  the  dominion  of  the 
Protestant  caste.  To  that  caste  Swift  was  more  odious 
than  any  other  man.  He  was  hooted  and  even  pelted 
in  the  streets  of  Dublin  ;  and  could  not  venture  to  ride 
along  the  strand  for  his  health  without  the  attendance 
of  armed   servants.      Many  whom  he    had   formerly 


208  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

served  now  libelled  and  insulted  him.  At  this  time 
Addison  arrived.  He  had  been  advised  not  to  show 
the  smallest  civility  to  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's.  He 
had  answered,  with  admirable  spirit,  that  it  might  be 
necessary  for  men  whose  fidelity  to  their  party  was 
suspected,  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  political  oppo- 
nents ;  but  that  one  who  had  been  a  steady  Whig  in 
the  worst  times  might  venture,  when  the  good  cause 
was  triumphant,  to  shake  hands  with  an  old  friend  who 
was  one  of  the  vanquished  Tories.  His  kindness  was 
soothing  to  the  proud  and  cruelly  wounded  spirit  of 
Swift ;  and  the  two  great  satirists  resumed  their  habits 
of  friendly  intercourse. 

Those  associates  of  Addison  whose  political  opin- 
ions agreed  with  his  shared  his  good  fortune.  He  took 
Tickell  with  him  to  Ireland.  He  procured  for  Budgell 
a  lucrative  place  in  the  same  kingdom.  Ambrose 
Philips  was  provided  for  in  England.  Steele  had  in- 
jured himself  so  much  by  his  eccentricity  and  perverse- 
ness,  that  he  obtained  but  a  very  small  part  of  what 
he  thought  his  due.  He  was,  however,  knighted  ;  he 
had  a  place  in  the  household ;  and  he  subsequently 
received  other  marks  of  favor  from  the  court. 

Addison  did  not  remain  long  in  Ireland.  In  171 5 
he  quitted  his  secretaryship  for  a  seat  at  the  Board  of 
Trade.  In  the  same  year  his  comedy  of  the  Drum- 
mer was  brought  on  the  stage.  The  name  of  the 
author  was  not  announced  ;  the  piece  was  coldly  re- 
ceived ;  and  some  critics  have  expressed  a  doubt 
whether  it  were  really  Addison's.  To  us  the  evidence 
both  external  and  internal,  seems  decisive.  It  is  not 
in  Addison's  best  manner;  but  it  contains  numerous 
passages  which  no  other  writer  known  to  us  could  have 
produced.     It  was  again    performed  after   Addison's 


ADDISON.  209 

death,   and,    being  known    to    be    his,   was    loudly 
applauded. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  171 5,  while  the 
Rebellion  was  still  raging  in  Scotland,  Addison  pub- 
lished the  first  number  of  a  paper  called  the  Freeholder. 
Among  his  political  works  the  Freeholder  is  entitled 
to  the  first  place.  Even  in  the  Spectator  there  are 
few  serious  papers  nobler  than  the  character  of  his 
friend  Lord  Somers,  and  certainly  no  satirical  papers 
superior  to  those  in  which  the  Tory  foxhunter  is 
introduced.  This  character  is  the  original  of  Squire 
Western,  and  is  drawn  with  all  Fielding's  force,  and 
with  a  delicacy  of  which  Fielding  was  altogether  des- 
titute. As  none  of  Addison's  works  exhibit  stronger 
marks  of  his  genius  than  the  Freeholder,  so  none  does 
more  honor  to  his  moral  character.  It  is  difficult  to 
extol  too  highly  the  candor  and  humanity  of  a  political 
writer  whom  even  the  excitement  of  civil  war  cannot 
hurry  into  unseemly  violence.  Oxford,  it  was  well 
known,  was  then  the  stronghold  of  Toryism.  The 
High  Street  had  been  repeatedly  lined  with  bayonets 
in  order  to  keep  down  the  disaffected  gownsmen  ;  and 
traitors  pursued  by  the  messengers  of  the  Government 
had  been  concealed  in  the  garrets  of  several  colleges. 
Yet  the  admonition  which,  even  under  such  circum- 
stances, Addison  addressed  to  the  University,  is  singu- 
larly gentle,  respectful,  and  even  affectionate.  Indeed, 
he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  deal  harshly  even 
with  imaginary  persons.  His  foxhunter,  though 
ignorant,  stupid,  and  violent,  is  at  heart  a  good  fellow, 
and  is  at  last  reclaimed  by  the  clemency  of  the  King. 
Steele  was  dissatisfied  with  his  friend's  moderation, 
and,  though  he  acknowledged  that  the  Freeholder  was 
excellently  written,  complained  that  the  ministry  played 


2IO  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

on  a  lute  when  it  was  necessary  to  blow  the  trumpet. 
He  accordingly  determined  to  execute  a  flourish  after 
his  own  fashion,  and  tried  to  rouse  the  public  spirit  of 
the  nation  by  means  of  a  paper  called  the  Town  Talk, 
which  is  now  as  utterly  forgotten  as  his  Englishman, 
as  his  Crisis,  as  his  Letter  to  the  Bailiff  of  Stockbridge, 
as  his  Reader,  in  short,  as  everything  that  he  wrote 
without  the  help  of  Addison. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  the  Drummer  was  acted, 
and  in  which  the  first  numbers  of  the  Freeholder 
appeared,  the  estrangement  of  Pope  and  Addison 
became  complete.  Addison  had  from  the  first  seen 
that  Pope  was  false  and  malevolent.  Pope  had  dis- 
covered that  Addison  was  jealous.  The  discovery 
was  made  in  a  strange  manner.  Pope  had  written 
the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  in  two  cantos,  without  super- 
natural machinery.  These  two  cantos  had  been 
loudly  applauded,  and  by  none  more  loudly  than  by 
Addison.  Then  Pope  thought  of  the  Sylphs  and 
Gnomes,  Ariel,  Momentilla,  Crispissa,  and  Umbriel, 
and  resolved  to  interweave  the  Rosicrusian  mythology 
with  the  original  fabric.  He  asked  Addison's  advice. 
Addison  said  that  the  poem  as  it  stood  was  a  delicious 
little  thing,  and  entreated  Pope  not  to  run  the  risk  of 
marring  what  was  so  excellent  in  trying  to  mend  it. 
Pope  afterwards  declared  that  this  insidious  counsel 
first  opened  his  eyes  to  the  baseness  of  him  who 
gave  it. 

Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Pope's  plan  was 
most  ingenious,  and  that  he  afterwards  executed  it 
with  great  skill  and  success.  But  does  it  necessarily 
follow  that  Addison's  advice  was  bad  ?  And  if  Addi- 
son's advice  was  bad.  does  it  necessarily  follow  that 
it  was  given  from  bad  motives  ?     If  a  friend  were  to 


ADDISON.  2 1 1 

ask  us  whether  we  would  advise  him  to  risk  his  all  in 
a  lottery  of  which  the  chances  were  ten  to  one  against 
him,  we  should  do  our  best  to  dissuade  him  from  run- 
ning such  a  risk.  Even  if  he  were  so  lucky  as  to  get 
the  thirty  thousand  pound  prize,  we  should  not  admit 
that  we  had  counselled  him  ill ;  and  we  should  cer- 
tainly think  it  the  height  of  injustice  in  him  to  accuse 
us  of  having  been  actuated  by  malice.  We  think 
Addison's  advice  good  advice.  It  rested  on  a  sound 
principle,  the  result  of  long  and  wide  experience. 
The  general  rule  undoubtedly  is  that,  when  a  suc- 
cessful work  of  imagination  has  been  produced,  it 
should  not  be  recast.  We  cannot  at  this  moment 
call  to  mind  a  single  instance  in  which  this  rule  has 
been  transgressed  with  happy  effect,  except  the  in- 
stance of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock.  Tasso  recast  his 
Jerusalem.  Akenside  recast  his  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,  and  his  Epistle  to  Curio.  Pope  him- 
self, emboldened  no  doubt  by  the  success  with  which 
he  had  expanded  and  remodelled  the  Rape  of  the 
Lock,  made  the  same  experiment  on  the  Dunciad. 
All  these  attempts  failed.  Who  was  to  foresee  that 
Pope  would,  once  in  his  life,  be  able  to  do  what  he 
could  not  himself  do  twice,  and  what  nobody  else  has 
ever  done  ? 

Addison's  advice  was  good,  but  had  it  been  bad, 
why  should  we  pronounce  it  dishonest  ?  Scott  tells 
us  that  one  of  his  best  friends  predicted  the  failure 
of  Waverley.  Herder  adjured  Goethe  not  to  take  so 
unpromising  a  subject  as  Faust.  Hume  tried  to  dis- 
suade Robertson  from  writing  the  history  of  Charles 
the  Fifth.  Nay,  Pope  himself  was  one  of  those  who 
prophesied  that  Cato  would  never  succeed  on  the 
stage,  and  advised  Addison  to  print  it  without  risk- 


212  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

ing  a  representation.  But  Scott,  Goethe,  Robertson^ 
Addison,  had  the  good  sense  and  generosity  to  give 
their  advisers  credit  for  the  best  intentions.  Pope's 
heart  was  not  of  the  same  kind  with  theirs. 

In  1 71 5,  while  he  was  engaged  in  translating  the 
Iliad,  he  met  Addison  at  a  coffee-house.  Philips 
and  Budgell  were  there ;  but  their  sovereign  got  rid 
of  them,  and  asked  Pope  to  dine  with  him  alone. 
After  dinner,  Addison  said  that  he  lay  under  a  diffi- 
culty which  he  wished  to  explain.  "  Tickell,"  he 
said,  "  translated  some  time  ago  the  first  book  of  the 
Iliad.  I  have  promised  to  look  it  over  and  correct 
it.  I  cannot  therefore  ask  to  see  yours ;  for  that 
would  be  double  dealing.11  Pope  made  a  civil  reply, 
and  begged  that  his  second  book  might  have  the 
advantage  of  Addison's  revision.  Addison  readily 
agreed,  looked  over  the  second  book,  and  sent  it 
back  with  warm  commendations. 

TickelTs  version  of  the  first  book  appeared  soon 
after  this  conversation.  In  the  preface,  all  rivalry 
was  earnestly  disclaimed.  Tickell  declared  that  he 
should  not  go  on  with  the  Iliad.  That  enterprise  he 
should  leave  to  powers  which  he  admitted  to  be  supe- 
rior to  his  own.  His  only  view,  he  said,  in  publish- 
ing this  specimen  was  to  bespeak  the  favor  of  the 
public  to  a  translation  of  the  Odyssey,  in  which  he 
had  made  some  progress. 

Addison,  and  Addison^  devoted  followers,  pro- 
nounced both  the  versions  good,  but  maintained  that 
Tickell's  had  more  of  the  original.  The  town  gave 
a  decided  preference  to  Pope's.  We  do  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  settle  such  a  question  of  precedence. 
Neither  of  the  rivals  can  be  said  to  have  translated 
the  Iliad,  unless,  indeed,  the  word  translation  be  used 


ADDISON.  213 

in  the  sense  which  it  bears  in  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream.  When  Bottom  makes  his  appearance  with 
an  ass's  head  instead  of  his  own,  Peter  Quince  ex- 
claims, "  Bless  thee  !  Bottom,  bless  thee  !  thou  art 
translated."  In  this  sense,  undoubtedly,  the  readers 
of  either  Pope  or  Tickell  may  very  properly  ex- 
claim, a  Bless  thee  !  Homer ;  thou  art  translated 
indeed.1' 

Our  readers  will,  we  hope,  agree  with  us  in  thinking 
that  no  man  in  Addison's  situation  could  have  acted 
more  fairly  and  kindly,  both  towards  Pope  and 
towards  Tickell,  than  he  appears  to  have  done.  But 
an  odious  suspicion  had  sprung  up  in  the  mind  of 
Pope.  He  fancied,  and  he  soon  firmly  believed,  that 
there  was  a  deep  conspiracy  against  his  fame  and  his 
fortunes.  The  work  on  which  he  had  staked  his  repu- 
tation was  to  be  depreciated.  The  subscription,  on 
which  rested  his  hopes  of  a  competency,  was  to  be 
defeated.  With  this  view  Addison  had  made  a  rival 
translation  ;  Tickell  had  consented  to  father  it ;  and 
the  wits  of  Button's  had  united  to  puff  it. 

Is  there  any  external  evidence  to  support  this  grave 
accusation  ?  The  answer  is  short.  There  is  abso- 
lutely none. 

Was  there  any  internal  evidence  which  proved 
Addison  to  be  the  author  of  this  version  ?  Was  it  a 
work  which  Tickell  was  incapable  of  producing  ? 
Surely  not.  Tickell  was  a  Fellow  of  a  College  at 
Oxford,  and  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  able  to 
construe  the  Iliad ;  and  he  was  a  better  versifier  than 
his  friend.  We  are  not  aware  that  Pope  pretended 
to  have  discovered  any  turns  of  expression  peculiar 
to  Addison.  Had  such  turns  of  expression  been  dis- 
covered, they  would  be  sufficiently  accounted  for  by 


214  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

supposing  Addison  to  have  corrected  his  friend's 
lines,  as  he  owned  that  he  had  done. 

Is  there  anything  in  the  character  of  the  accused 
persons  which  makes  the  accusation  probable?  We 
answer  confidently —  nothing.  Tickell  was  long  after 
this  time  described  by  Pope  himself  as  a  very  fair  and 
worthy  man.  Addison  had  been,  during  many  years, 
before  the  public.  Literary  rivals,  political  opponents, 
had  kept  their  eyes  on  him.  But  neither  envy  nor 
faction,  in  their  utmost  rage,  had  ever  imputed  to  him 
a  single  deviation  from  the  laws  of  honor  and  of  social 
morality.  Had  he  been  indeed  a  man  meanly  jealous 
of  fame,  and  capable  of  stooping  to  base  and  wicked 
arts  for  the  purpose  of  injuring  his  competitors, 
would  his  vices  have  remained  latent  so  long?  He 
was  a  writer  of  tragedy  :  had  he  ever  injured  Rowe? 
He  was  a  writer  of  comedy  :  had  he  not  done  ample 
justice  to  Congreve,  and  given  valuable  help  to  Steele? 
He  was  a  pamphleteer :  have  not  his  good  nature  and 
generosity  been  acknowledged  by  Swift,  his  rival  in 
fame  and  his  adversary  in  politics? 

That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villany 
seems  to  us  highly  improbable.  That  Addison  should 
have  been  guilty  of  a  villany  seems  to  us  highly 
improbable.  But  that  these  two  men  should  have 
conspired  together  to  commit  a  villany  seems  to  us 
improbable  in  a  tenfold  degree.  All  that  is  known  to 
us  of  their  intercourse  tends  to  prove  that  it  was  not 
the  intercourse  of  two  accomplices  in  crime.  These 
are  some  of  the  lines  in  which  Tickell  poured  forth 
his  sorrow  over  the  coffin  of  Addison  : 

"  Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind  ? 
Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend, 


ADDISON.  2 1 5 

To  me  thine  aid,  thou  guardian  genius,  lend. 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms, 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  shall  part  us  more." 

In  what  words,  we  should  like  to  know,  did  this 
guardian  genius  invite  his  pupil  to  join  in  a  plan  such 
as  the  Editor  of  the  Satirist  would  hardly  dare  to  pro- 
pose to  the  Editor  of  the  Age? 

We  do  not  accuse  Pope  of  bringing  an  accusation 
which  he  knew  to  be  false.  We  have  not  the  small- 
est doubt  that  he  believed  it  to  be  true ;  and  the  evi- 
dence on  which  he  believed  it  he  found  in  his  own  bad 
heart.  His  own  life  was  one  long  series  of  tricks,  as 
mean  and  as  malicious  as  that  of  which  he  suspected 
Addison  and  Tickell.  He  was  all  stiletto  and  mask. 
To  injure,  to  insult,  and  to  save  himself  from  the  con- 
sequences of  injury  and  insult  by  lying  and  equivocat- 
ing, was  the  habit  of  his  life.  He  published  a  lampoon 
on  the  Duke  of  Chandos  ;  he  was  taxed  with  it ;  and 
he  lied  and  equivocated.  He  published  a  lampoon  on 
Aaron  Hill ;  he  was  taxed  with  it ;  and  he  lied  and 
equivocated.  He  published  a  still  fouler  lampoon  on 
Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montague  ;  he  was  taxed  with 
it ;  and  he  lied  with  more  than  usual  effrontery  and 
vehemence.  He  puffed  himself  and  abused  his 
enemies  under  feigned  names.  He  robbed  himself  of 
his  own  letters,  and  then  raised  the  hue  and  cry  after 
him.  Besides  his  frauds  of  malignity,  of  fear,  of  inter- 
est, and  of  vanity,  there  were  frauds  which  he  seems 
to  have  committed  from  love  of  fraud  alone.  He  had 
a  habit  of  stratagem,  a  pleasure  in  outwitting  all  who 


2l6  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

came  near  him.  Whatever  his  object  might  be,  the 
indirect  road  to  it  was  that  which  he  preferred.  For 
Bolingbroke,  Pope  undoubtedly  felt  as  much  love  and 
veneration  as  it  was  in  his  nature  to  feel  for  any 
human  being.  Yet  Pope  was  scarcely  dead  when  it 
was  discovered  that,  from  no  motive  except  the  mere 
love  of  artifice,  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  act  of  gross 
perfidy  to  Bolingbroke. 

Nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  such  a  man  as 
this  should  attribute  to  others  that  which  he  felt 
within  himself.  A  plain,  probable,  coherent  explana- 
tion is  frankly  given  to  him.  He  is  certain  that  it  is 
all  a  romance.  A  line  of  conduct  scrupulously  fair, 
and  even  friendly,  is  pursued  towards  him.  He  is  con- 
vinced that  it  is  merely  a  cover  for  a  vile  intrigue  by 
which  he  is  to  be  disgraced  and  ruined.  It  is  vain  to 
ask  him  for  proofs.  He  has  none,  and  wants  none, 
except  those  which  he  carries  in  his  own  bosom. 

Whether  Pope's  malignity  at  length  provoked  Addi- 
son to  retaliate  for  the  first  and  last  time,  cannot  now 
be  known  with  certainty.  We  have  only  Pope's  story, 
which  runs  thus.  A  pamphlet  appeared  containing 
some  reflections  which  stung  Pope  to  the  quick. 
What  those  reflections  were,  and  whether  they  were 
reflections  of  which  he  had  a  right  to  complain,  we 
have  now  no  means  of  deciding.  The  Earl  of  War- 
wick, a  foolish  and  vicious  lad,  who  regarded  Addison 
with  the  feelings  with  which  such  lads  generally 
regard  their  best  friends,  told  Pope,  truly  or  falsely, 
that  this  pamphlet  had  been  written  by  Addison's 
direction.  When  we  consider  what  a  tendency  stories 
have  to  grow,  in  passing  even  from  one  honest  man 
to  another  honest  man,  and  when  we  consider  that  to 
the  name  of  honest  man  neither  Pope  nor  the  Earl  of 


ADDISON.  2  I  7 

Warwick  had  a  claim,  we  are  not  disposed  to  attach 
much  importance  to  this  anecdote. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  Pope  was  furious.  He 
had  already  sketched  the  character  of  Atticus  in 
prose.  In  his  anger  he  turned  his  prose  into  the 
brilliant  and  energetic  lines  which  everybody  knows 
by  heart,  or  ought  to  know  by  heart,  and  sent  them 
to  Addison.  One  charge  which  Pope  has  enforced 
with  great  skill  is  probably  not  without  foundation. 
Addison  was,  we  are  inclined  to  believe,  too  fond  of 
presiding  over  a  circle  of  humble  friends.  Of  the 
other  imputations  which  these  famous  lines  are  in- 
tended to  convey,  scarcely  one  has  ever  been  proved  to 
be  just,  and  some  are  certainly  false.  That  Addison 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  "  damning  with  faint  praise  " 
appears  from  innumerable  passages  in  his  writings, 
and  from  none  more  than  from  those  in  which  he 
mentions  Pope.  And  it  is  not  merely  unjust,  but 
ridiculous,  to  describe  a  man  who  made  the  fortune 
of  almost  every  one  of  his  intimate  friends,  as  "so 
obliging  that  he  ne'er  obliged.'" 

That  Addison  felt  the  sting  of  Pope's  satire  keenly 
we  cannot  doubt.  That  he  was  conscious  of  one  of 
the  weaknesses  with  which  he  was  reproached  is 
highly  probable.  But  his  heart,  we  firmly  believe, 
acquitted  him  of  the  gravest  part  of  the  accusation. 
He  acted  like  himself.  As  a  satirist  he  was,  at  his 
own  weapons,  more  than  Pope's  match  ;  and  he  would 
have  been  at  no  loss  for  topics.  A  distorted  and  dis- 
eased body,  tenanted  by  a  yet  more  distorted  and 
diseased  mind  ;  spite  and  envy  thinly  disguised  by 
sentiments  as  benevolent  and  noble  as  those  which 
Sir  Peter  Teazle  admired  in  Mr.  Joseph  Surface ;  a 
feeble  sickly  licentiousness  ;  an  odious  love  of  filthy 


2l8  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

and  noisome  images ;  these  were  things  which  a 
genius  less  powerful  than  that  to  which  we  owe  the 
Spectator  could  easily  have  held  up  to  the  mirth  and 
hatred  of  mankind.  Addison  had,  moreover,  at  his 
command,  other  means  of  vengeance  which  a  bad  man 
would  not  have  scrupled  to  use.  He  was  powerful  in 
the  state.  Pope  was  a  Catholic;  and,  in  those  times, 
a  minister  would  have  found  it  easy  to  harass  the  most 
innocent  Catholic  by  innumerable  petty  vexations. 
Pope,  near  twenty  years  later,  said  that  "  through  the 
lenity  of  the  government  alone  he  could  live  with  com- 
fort.1' " Consider, "  he  exclaimed,  "the  injury  that  a 
man  of  high  rank  and  credit  may  do  to  a  private  per- 
son, under  penal  laws  and  many  other  disadvantages.1' 
It  is  pleasing  to  reflect  that  the  only  revenge  which 
Addison  took  was  to  insert  in  the  Freeholder  a  warm 
encomium  on  the  translation  of  the  Iliad,  and  to 
exhort  all  lovers  of  learning  to  put  down  their  names 
as  subscribers.  There  could  be  no  doubt,  he  said, 
from  the  specimens  already  published,  that  the  mas- 
terly hand  of  Pope  would  do  as  much  for  Homer  as 
Dry  den  had  done  for  Virgil.  From  that  time  to  the 
end  of  his  life,  he  always  treated  Pope,  by  Pope's  own 
acknowledgment,  with  justice.  Friendship  was,  of 
course,  at  an  end. 

One  reason  which  induced  the  Earl  of  Warwick  to 
play  the  ignominious  part  of  talebearer  on  this  occa- 
sion, may  have  been  his  dislike  of  the  marriage  which 
was  about  to  take  place  between  his  mother  and  Addi- 
son. The  Countess  Dowager,  a  daughter  of  the  old 
and  honorable  family  of  the  Middletons  of  Chirk,  a 
family  which,  in  any  country  but  ours,  would  be 
called  noble,  resided  at  Holland  House.  Addison 
had,  during  some  years,  occupied  at  Chelsea,  a  small 


ADDISON.  219 

dwelling,  once  the  abode  of  Nell  Gwynn.  Chelsea  is 
now  a  district  of  London,  and  Holland  House  may  be 
called  a  town  residence.  But,  in  the  days  of  Anne 
and  George  the  First,  milkmaids  and  sportsmen 
wandered  between  green  hedges,  a  ad  over  fields 
bright  with  daisies,  from  Kensington  almost  to  the 
shore  of  the  Thames.  Addison  and  Lady  Warwick 
were  country  neighbors,  and  became  intimate  friends. 
The  great  wit  and  scholar  tried  to  allure  the  young 
Lord  from  the  fashionable  amusements  of  beating 
watchmen,  breaking  windows,  and  rolling  women  in 
hogsheads  down  Holborn  Hill,  to  the  study  of  letters 
and  the  practice  of  virtue.  These  well-meant  exer- 
tions did  little  good,  however,  either  to  the  disciple 
or  to  the  master.  Lord  Warwick  grew  up  a  rake ; 
and  Addison  fell  in  love.  The  mature  beauty  of  the 
Countess  has  been  celebrated  by  poets  in  language 
which,  after  a  very  large  allowance  has  been  made  for 
flattery,  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  she  was  a  fine 
woman  ;  and  her  rank  doubtless  heightened  her  attrac- 
tions. The  courtship  was  long.  The  hopes  of  the 
lover  appear  to  have  risen  and  fallen  with  the  fortunes 
of  his  party.  His  attachment  was  at  length  matter  of 
such  notoriety  that,  when  he  visited  Ireland  for  the 
last  time,  Rowe  addressed  some  consolatory  verses  to 
the  Chloe  of  Holland  House.  It  strikes  us  as  a 
little  strange  that,  in  these  verses,  Addison  should 
be  called  Lycidas,  a  name  of  singularly  evil  omen 
for  a  swain  just  about  to  cross  St.  George's 
Channel. 

At  length  Chloe  capitulated.  Addison  was  indeed 
able  to  treat  with  her  on  equal  terms.  He  had  reason 
to  expect  preferment  even  higher  than  that  which  he 
had   attained.     He   had    inherited    the   fortune   of  a 


220  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

brother  who  died  Governor  of  Madras.  He  had 
purchased  an  estate  in  Warwickshire,  and  had  been 
welcomed  to  his  domain  in  very  tolerable  verse  by 
one  of  the  neighboring  squires,  the  poetical  foxhunter, 
William  Somervile.  In  August,  1716,  the  newspapers 
announced  that  Joseph  Addison,  Esquire,  famous  for 
many  excellent  works  both  in  verse  and  prose,  had 
espoused  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick. 

He  now  fixed  his  abode  at  Holland  House,  a  house 
which  can  boast  of  a  greater  number  of  inmates  dis- 
tinguished in  political  and  literary  history  than  any 
other  private  dwelling  in  England.  His  portrait  still 
hangs  there.  The  features  are  pleasing ;  the  com- 
plexion is  remarkably  fair ;  but  in  the  expression  we 
trace  rather  the  gentleness  of  his  disposition  than  the 
force  and  keenness  of  his  intellect. 

Not  long  after  his  marriage  he  reached  the  height 
of  civil  greatness.  The  Whig  Government  had,  dur- 
ing some  time,  been  torn  by  internal  dissensions. 
Lord  Townshend  led  one  section  of  the  Cabinet, 
Lord  Sunderland  the  other.  At  length,  in  the  spring 
of  171 7,  Sunderland  triumphed.  Townshend  retired 
from  office,  and  was  accompanied  by  Walpole  and 
Cowper.  Sunderland  proceeded  to  reconstruct  the 
Ministry;  and  Addison  was  appointed  Secretary  of 
State.  It  is  certain  that  the  Seals  were  pressed  upon 
him,  and  were  at  first  declined  by  him.  Men  equally 
versed  in  official  business  might  easily  have  been 
found ;  and  his  colleagues  knew  that  they  could  not 
expect  assistance  from  him  in  debate.  He  owed  his 
elevation  to  his  popularity,  to  his  stainless  probity, 
and  to  his  literary  fame. 

But  scarcely  had  Addison  entered  the  Cabinet  when 
his  health  began  to  fail.     From  one  serious  attack  he 


ADDISON.  221 

recovered  in  the  autumn ;  and  his  recovery  was  cele- 
brated in  Latin  verses,  worthy  of  his  own  pen,  by 
Vincent  Bourne,  who  was  then  at  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge.  A  relapse  soon  took  place ;  and,  in  the 
following  spring,  Addison  was  prevented  by  a  severe 
asthma  from  discharging  the  duties  of  his  post.  He 
resigned  it,  and  was  succeeded  by  his  friend  Craggs, 
a  young  man  whose  natural  parts,  though  little 
improved  by  cultivation,  were  quick  and  showy,  whose 
graceful  person  and  winning  manners  had  made  him 
generally  acceptable  in  society,  and  who,  if  he  had 
lived,  would  probably  have  been  the  most  formidable 
of  all  the  rivals  of  Walpole. 

As  yet  there  was  no  Joseph  Hume.  The  Ministers, 
therefore,  were  able  to  bestow  on  Addison  a  retiring 
pension  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year.  In  what 
form  this  pension  was  given  we  are  not  told  by  the 
biographers,  and  have  not  time  to  inquire.  But  it  is 
certain  that  Addison  did  not  vacate  his  seat  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

Rest  of  mind  and  body  seems  to  have  re-established 
his  health  ;  and  he  thanked  God,  with  cheerful  piety, 
for  having  set  him  free  both  from  his  office  and  from 
his  asthma.  Many  years  seemed  to  be  before  him, 
and  he  meditated  many  works,  a  tragedy  on  the 
death  of  Socrates,  a  translation  of  the  Psalms,  a 
treatise  on  the  evidences  of  Christianity.  Of  this 
last  performance,  a  part,  which  we  could  well  spare, 
has  come  down  to  us. 

But  the  fatal  complaint  soon  returned,  and  gradu- 
ally prevailed  against  all  the  resources  of  medicine. 
It  is  melancholy  to  think  that  the  last  months  of  such 
a  life  should  have  been  overclouded  both  by  domestic 
and  by  political  vexations.     A  tradition  which  began 


222  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

early,  which  has  been  generally  received,  and  to  which 
we  have  nothing  to  oppose,  has  represented  his  wife 
as  an  arrogant  and  imperious  woman.  It  is  said  that, 
till  his  health  failed  him,  he  was  glad  to  escape  from 
the  Countess  Dowager  and  her  magnificent  dining- 
room,  blazing  with  the  gilded  devices  of  the  House 
of  Rich,  to  some  tavern  where  he  could  enjoy  a  laugh, 
a  talk  about  Virgil  and  Boileau,  and  a  bottle  of 
claret,  with  the  friends  of  his  happier  days.  All  those 
friends,  however,  were  not  left  to  him.  Sir  Richard 
Steele  had  been  gradually  estranged  by  various  causes. 
He  considered  himself  as  one  who,  in  evil  times,  had 
braved  martyrdom  for  his  political  principles,  and 
demanded,  when  the  Whig  party  was  triumphant,  a 
large  compensation  for  what  he  had  suffered  when  it 
was  militant.  The  Whig  leaders  took  a  very  different 
view  of  his  claims.  They  thought  that  he  had,  by  his 
own  petulance  and  folly,  brought  them  as  well  as  him- 
self into  trouble,  and  though  they  did  not  absolutely 
neglect  him.  doled  out  favors  to  him  with  a  sparing 
hand.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  be  angry  with 
them,  and  especially  angry  with  Addison.  But  what 
above  all  seems  to  have  disturbed  Sir  Richard,  was 
the  elevation  of  Tickell,  who,  at  thirty,  was  made  by 
Addison,  Under  Secretary  of  State ;  while  the  Editor 
of  the  Tatler  and  Spectator,  the  author  of  the  Crisis, 
the  member  for  Stockbridge  who  had  been  persecuted 
for  firm  adherence  to  the  House  of  Hanover,  was,  at 
near  fifty,  forced,  after  many  solicitations  and  com- 
plaints, to  content  himself  with  a  share  in  the  patent 
of  Drury  Lane  theatre.  Steele  himself  says,  in  his 
celebrated  letter  to  Congreve,  that  Addison,  by  his 
preference  of  Tickell,  "  incurred  the  warmest  resent- 
ment of  other  gentlemen ;  "  and  everything  seems  to 


ADDISON.  223 

indicate  that,  of  those  resentful  gentlemen,  Steele  was 
himself  one. 

While  poor  Sir  Richard  was  brooding  over  what  he 
considered  as  Addison's  unkindness,  a  new  cause  of 
quarrel  arose.  The  Whig  party,  already  divided 
against  itself,  was  rent  by  a  new  schism.  The  cele- 
brated Bill  for  limiting  the  number  of  Peers  had  been 
brought  in.  The  proud  Duke  of  Somerset,  first  in 
rank  of  all  the  nobles  whose  origin  permitted  them  to 
sit  in  Parliament,  was  the  ostensible  author  of  the 
measure.  But  it  was  supported,  and,  in  truth,  devised 
by  the  Prime  Minister. 

We  are  satisfied  that  the  Bill  was  most  pernicious  ; 
and  we  feel  that  the  motives  which  induced  Sunder- 
land to  frame  it  were  not  honorable  to  him.  But  we 
cannot  deny  that  it  was  supported  by  many  of  the 
best  and  wisest  men  of  that  age.  Nor  was  this 
strange.  The  royal  prerogative  had,  within  the  mem- 
ory of  the  generation  then  in  the  vigor  of  life,  been 
so  grossly  abused,  that  it  was  still  regarded  with  a 
jealousy  which,  when  the  peculiar  situation  of  the 
House  of  Brunswick  is  considered,  may  perhaps  be 
called  immoderate.  The  particular  prerogative  of 
creating  peers  had,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Whigs, 
been  grossly  abused  by  Queen  Anne's  last  Ministry ; 
and  even  the  Tories  admitted  that  her  Majesty,  in 
swamping,  as  it  has  since  been  called,  the  Upper 
House,  had  done  what  only  an  extreme  case  could 
justify.  The  theory  of  the  English  constitution, 
according  to  many  high  authorities,  was  that  three 
independent  powers,  the  sovereign,  the  nobility,  and 
the  commons,  ought  constantly  to  act  as  checks  on 
each  other.  If  this  theory  were  sound,  it  seemed  to 
follow  that   to  put  one  of  these  powers  under  the 


224  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

absolute  control  of  the  other  two,  was  absurd.  But 
if  the  number  of  peers  were  unlimited,  it  could  not 
well  be  denied  that  the  Upper  House  was  under  the 
absolute  control  of  the  Crown  and  the  Commons,  and 
was  indebted  only  to  their  moderation  for  any  power 
which  it  might  be  suffered  to  retain. 

Steele  took  part  with  the  Opposition,  Addison  with 
the  Ministers.  Steele,  in  a  paper  called  the  Plebeian, 
vehemently  attacked  the  bill.  Sunderland  called  for 
help  on  Addison,  and  Addison  obeyed  the  call.  In  a 
paper  called  the  Old  Whig,  he  answered,  and  indeed 
refuted  Steele's  arguments.  It  seems  to  us  that  the 
premises  of  both  the  controversialists  were  unsound, 
that,  on  those  premises,  Addison  reasoned  well  and 
Steele  ill,  and  that  consequently  Addison  brought  out 
a  false  conclusion  while  Steele  blundered  upon  the 
truth.  In  style,  in  wit,  and  in  politeness,  Addison 
maintained  his  superiority,  though  the  Old  Whig  is 
by  no  means  one  of  his  happiest  performances. 

At  first,  both  the  anonymous  opponents  observed 
the  laws  of  propriety.  But  at  length  Steele  so  far 
forgot  himself  as  to  throw  an  odious  imputation  on 
the  morals  of  the  chiefs  of  the  administration. 
Addison  replied  with  severity,  but,  in  our  opinion, 
with  less  severity  than  was  due  to  so  grave  an  offence 
against  morality  and  decorum  ;  nor  did  he,  in  his  just 
anger,  forget  for  a  moment  the  laws  of  good  taste  and 
good  breeding.  One  calumny  which  has  been  often 
repeated,  and  never  yet  contradicted,  it  is  our  duty  to 
expose.  It  is  asserted  in  the  Biographia  Britannica, 
that  Addison  designated  Steele  as  "little  Dicky." 
This  assertion  was  repeated  by  Johnson,  who  had 
never  seen  the  Old  Whig,  and  was  therefore  excusa- 
ble.    It  has  also  been  repeated  by  Miss  Aikin,  who 


ADDISON.  225 

has  seen  the  Old  Whig,  and  for  whom  therefore  there 
is  less  excuse.  Now,  it  is  true  that  the  words  "  little 
Dicky "  occur  in  the  Old  Whig,  and  that  Steele's 
name  was  Richard.  It  is  equally  true  that  the  words 
"little  Isaac  "  occur  in  the  Duenna,  and  that  Newton's 
name  was  Isaac.  But  we  confidently  affirm  that 
Addison's  little  Dicky  had  no  more  to  do  with  Steele, 
than  Sheridan's  little  Isaac  with  Newton.  If  we  apply 
the  words  "  little  Dicky  "  to  Steele,  we  deprive  a  very 
lively  and  ingenious  passage,  not  only  of  all  its  wit, 
but  of  all  its  meaning.  Little  Dicky  was  the  nick- 
name of  Henry  Norris,  an  actor  of  remarkably  small 
stature,  but  of  great  humor,  who  played  the  usurer 
Gomez,  then  a  most  popular  part  in  Dryden's  Span- 
ish Friar.1 

The  merited  reproof  which  Steele  had  received, 
though  softened  by  some  kind  and  courteous  expres- 
sions, galled  him  bitterly.  He  replied  with  little 
force  and  great  acrimony ;  but  no  rejoinder  appeared. 
Addison  was  fast  hastening  to  his  grave ;  and  had, 
we  may  well  suppose,  little  disposition  to  prosecute  a 

1  We  will  transcribe  the  whole  paragraph.  How  it  can  ever  have 
been  misunderstood  is  unintelligible  to  us. 

"  But  our  author's  chief  concern  is  for  the  poor  House  of  Commons, 
whom  he  represents  as  naked  and  defenceless,  when  the  Crown,  by 
losing  this  prerogative,  would  be  less  able  to  protect  them  against  the 
power  of  a  House  of  Lords.  Who  forbears  laughing  when  the  Span- 
ish Friar  represents  little  Dicky,  under  the  person  of  Gomez,  insulting 
the  Colonel  that  was  able  to  fright  him  out  of  his  wits  with  a  single 
frown?  This  Gomez,  says  he,  flew  upon  him  like  a  dragon,  got  him 
down,  the  Devil  being  strong  in  him,  and  gave  him  bastinado  on 
bastinado,  and  buffet  on  buffet,  which  the  poor  Colonel,  being  pros- 
trate, suffered  with  a  most  Christian  patience.  The  improbability 
of  the  fact  never  fails  to  raise  mirth  in  the  audience;  and  one  may 
venture  to  answer  for  a  British  House  of  Commons,  if  we  may  guess, 
from  its  conduct  hitherto,  that  it  will  scarce  be  either  so  tame  or  so 
weak  as  our  author  supposes." 


226  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

quarrel  with  an  old  friend.  His  complaint  had  termi- 
nated in  dropsy.  He  bore  up  long  and  manfully. 
But  at  length  he  abandoned  all  hope,  dismissed  his 
physicians,  and  calmly  prepared  himself  to  die. 

His  works  he  intrusted  to  the  care  of  Tickell,  and 
dedicated  them  a  very  few  days  before  his  death  to 
Craggs,  in  a  letter  written  with  the  sweet  and  graceful 
eloquence  of  a  Saturday's  Spectator.  In  this,  his  last 
composition,  he  alluded  to  his  approaching  end  in 
words  so  manly,  so  cheerful,  and  so  tender,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  read  them  without  tears.  At  the  same 
time  he  earnestly  recommended  the  interests  of 
Tickell  to  the  care  of  Craggs. 

Within  a  few  hours  of  the  time  at  which  this  dedi- 
cation was  written,  Addison  sent  to  beg  Gay,  who 
was  then  living  by  his  wits  about  town,  to  come  to 
Holland  House.  Gay  went,  and  was  received  with 
great  kindness.  To  his  amazement  his  forgiveness 
was  implored  by  the  dying  man.  Poor  Gay,  the 
most  good-natured  and  simple  of  mankind,  could  not 
imagine  what  he  had  to  forgive.  There  was,  however, 
some  wrong,  the  remembrance  of  which  weighed  on 
Addison's  mind,  and  which  he  declared  himself  anx- 
ious to  repair.  He  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  exhaus- 
tion ;  and  the  parting  was  doubtless  a  friendly  one 
on  both  sides.  Gay  supposed  that  some  plan  to  serve 
him  had  been  in  agitation  at  Court,  and  had  been 
frustrated  by  Addison's  influence.  Nor  is  this  im- 
probable. Gay  had  paid  assiduous  court  to  the  royal 
family.  But  in  the  Queen's  days  he  had  been  the 
eulogist  of  Bolingbroke,  and  was  still  connected  with 
many  Tories.  It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  while 
heated  by  conflict,  should  have  thought  himself  justi- 
fied in  obstructing  the  preferment  of  one  whom  he 


ADDISON.  227 

might  regard  as  a  political  enemy.  Neither  is  it 
strange  that,  when  reviewing  his  whole  life,  and  ear- 
nestly scrutinizing  all  his  motives,  he  should  think 
that  he  had  acted  an  unkind  and  ungenerous  part,  in 
using  his  power  against  a  distressed  man  of  letters, 
who  was  as  harmless  and  as  helpless  as  a  child. 

One  inference  may  be  drawn  from  this  anecdote. 
It  appears  that  Addison,  on  his  death-bed,  called 
himself  to  a  strict  account,  and  was  not  at  ease  till  he 
had  asked  pardon  for  an  injury  which  it  was  not  even 
suspected  that  he  had  committed,  for  an  injury  which 
would  have  caused  disquiet  only  to  a  very  tender  con- 
science. Is  it  not  then  reasonable  to  infer  that,  if  he 
had  really  been  guilty  of  forming  a  base  conspiracy 
against  the  fame  and  fortunes  of  a  rival,  he  would  have 
expressed  some  remorse  for  so  serious  a  crime?  But 
it  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  arguments  and  evidence 
for  the  defence,  when  there  is  neither  argument  nor 
evidence  for  the  accusation. 

The  last  moments  of  Addison  were  perfectly  serene. 
His  interview  with  his  son-in-law  is  universally  known. 
"See,11  he  said,  "how  a  Christian  can  die.11  The 
piety  of  Addison  was,  in  truth,  of  a  singularly  cheerful 
character.  The  feeling  which  predominates  in  all 
his  devotional  writings  is  gratitude.  God  was  to  him 
the  all-wise  and  all-powerful  friend  who  had  watched 
over  his  cradle  with  more  than  maternal  tenderness ; 
who  had  listened  to  his  cries  before  they  could  form 
themselves  into  prayer ;  who  had  preserved  his  youth 
from  the  snares  of  vice ;  who  had  made  his  cup  run 
over  with  worldly  blessings ;  who  had  doubled  the 
value  of  those  blessings,  by  bestowing  a  thankful 
heart  to  enjoy  them,  and  dear  friends  to  partake 
them ;  who  had  rebuked  the  waves  of  the  Ligurian 


228  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

gulf,  had  purified  the  autumnal  air  of  the  Campagna, 
and  had  restrained  the  avalanches  of  Mont  Cenis. 
Of  the  Psalms,  his  favorite  was  that  which  represents 
the  Ruler  of  all  things  under  the  endearing  image  of 
a  shepherd,  whose  crook  guides  the  flock  safe,  through 
gloomy  and  desolate  glens,  to  meadows  well  watered 
and  rich  with  herbage.  On  that  goodness  to  which 
he  ascribed  all  the  happiness  of  his  life,  he  relied  in 
the  hour  of  death  with  a  love  which  casteth  out  fear. 
He  died  on  the  seventeenth  of  June,  1719.  He  had 
just  entered  on  his  forty-eighth  year. 

His  body  lay  in  state  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber, 
and  was  borne  thence  to  the  Abbey  at  dead  of  night. 
The  choir  sang  a  funeral  hymn.  Bishop  Atterbury, 
one  of  those  Tories  who  had  loved  and  honored  the 
most  accomplished  of  the  Whigs,  met  the  corpse,  and 
led  the  procession  by  torchlight,  round  the  shrine  of 
Saint  Edward,  and  the  graves  of  the  Plantagenets, 
to  the  Chapel  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  On  the  north 
side  of  that  Chapel,  in  the  vault  of  the  House  of 
Albemarle,  the  coffin  of  Addison  lies  next  to  the 
coffin  of  Montague.  Yet  a  few  months ;  and  the 
same  mourners  passed  again  along  the  same  aisle. 
The  same  sad  anthem  was  again  chanted.  The  same 
vault  was  again  opened  ;  and  the  coffin  of  Craggs  was 
placed  close  to  the  coffin  of  Addison. 

Many  tributes  were  paid  to  the  memory  of  Addison  ; 
but  one  alone  is  now  remembered.  Tickell  bewailed 
his  friend  in  an  elegy  which  would  do  honor  to  the 
greatest  name  in  our  literature,  and  which  unites  the 
energy  and  magnificence  of  Dryden  to  the  tenderness 
and  purity  of  Cowper.  This  fine  poem  was  prefixed 
to  a  superb  edition  of  Addison's  works,  which  was 
published,  in   1721,  by  subscription.     The  names  of 


ADDISON.  229 

the  subscribers  proved  how  widely  his  fame  had  been 
spread.  That  his  countrymen  should  be  eager  to 
possess  his  writings,  even  in  a  costly  form,  is  not 
wonderful.  But  it  is  wonderful  that,  though  English 
literature  was  then  little  studied  on  the  Continent, 
Spanish  Grandees,  Italian  Prelates,  Marshals  of 
France,  should  be  found  in  the  list.  Among  the 
most  remarkable  names  are  those  of  the  Queen  of 
Sweden,  of  Prince  Eugene,  of  the  Grand  Duke  of 
Tuscany,  of  the  Dukes  of  Parma,  Modena,  and  Guas- 
talla,  of  the  Doge  of  Genoa,  of  the  Regent  Orleans, 
and  of  Cardinal  Dubois.  We  ought  to  add  that  this 
edition,  though  eminently  beautiful,  is  in  some  im- 
portant points  defective ;  nor,  indeed,  do  we  yet  pos- 
sess a  complete  collection  of  Addison's  writings. 

It  is  strange  that  neither  his  opulent  and  noble 
widow,  nor  any  of  his  powerful  and  attached  friends, 
should  have  thought  of  placing  even  a  simple  tablet, 
inscribed  with  his  name,  on  the  walls  of  the  Abbey.  It 
was  not  till  three  generations  had  laughed  and  wept 
over  his  pages,  that  the  omission  was  supplied  by  the 
public  veneration.  At  length,  in  our  own  time,  his 
image,  skilfully  graven,  appeared  in  Poet's  Corner. 
It  represents  him,  as  we  can  conceive  him,  clad  in  his 
dressing  gown,  and  freed  from  his  wig,  stepping  from 
his  parlor  at  Chelsea  into  his  trim  little  garden,  with 
the  account  of  the  Everlasting  Club,  or  the  Loves  of 
Hilpa  and  Shalum,  just  finished  for  the  next  day's 
Spectator,  in  his  hand.  Such  a  mark  of  national 
respect  was  due  to  the  unsullied  statesman,  to  the 
accomplished  scholar,  to  the  master  of  pure  English 
eloquence,  to  the  consummate  painter  of  life  and 
manners.  It  was  due,  above  all,  to  the  great  satirist, 
who  alone  knew  how  to  use  ridicule  without  abusing  it, 


230  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

who,  without  inflicting  a  wound,  effected  a  great 
social  reform,  and  who  reconciled  wit  and  virtue,  after 
a  long  and  disastrous  separation,  during  which  wit 
had  been  led  astray  by  profligacy,  and  virtue  by 
fanaticism. 

°  t/ 


JOHN    BUNYAN. 
1628-1688. 

The  following  essay  on  Bunyan  was  contributed  tc 
the  Encyclopedia  Britannica  in  May,  1854.  Macaula)* 
at  this  time  had  ceased  to  write  for  the  reviews  and 
periodicals.  Mr.  Adam  Black  says  that  he  was  in- 
debted to  Macaulay's  friendly  feeling  for  these  articles, 
and  that  he  made  it  a  stipulation  of  his  contributing 
to  the  Encyclopedia  that  remuneration  should  not  be 
so  much  as  mentioned.  He  had  written  on  Bunyan 
in  1832.  In  Margaret  Macaulay's  journal  occurs  the 
following  reference  to  this  earlier  article  :  "  I  am  glad 
Tom  has  reviewed  old  John  Bunyan.  Many  are 
reading  it  who  never  read  it  before.  Yesterday,  as 
he  was  sitting  in  the  Athenaeum,  a  gentleman  called 
out  '  Waiter,  is  there  a  copy  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress 
in  the  library  ? '  As  might  be  expected,  there  was  not.'" 
The  essay  here  reproduced  is  one  of  the  best  char- 
acter appreciations  that  Macaulay  ever  made,  and  the 
literary  estimate  is  not  at  all  inferior  to  many  articles 
of  more  words  but  less  sense. 

John  Bunyan,  the  most  popular  religious  writer  in 
the  English  language,  was  born  at  Elstow,  about  a 
mile  from  Bedford,  in  the  year  1628.  He  may  be  said 
to  have  been  born  a  tinker.  The  tinkers  then  formed 
an  hereditary  caste,  which  was  held  in  no  high  estima- 
tion. They  were  generally  vagrants  and  pilferers,  and 
were  often  confounded  with  the  gypsies,  whom  in  truth 
they  nearly  resembled.  Bunyan's  father  was  more 
231 


232  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

respectable  than  most  of  the  tribe.  He  had  a  fixed 
residence,  and  was  able  to  send  his  son  to  a  village 
school  where  reading  and  writing  were  taught. 

The  years  of  John's  boyhood  were  those  during 
which  the  puritan  spirit  was  in  the  highest  vigor  all 
over  England ;  and  nowhere  had  that  spirit  more 
influence  than  in  Bedfordshire.  It  is  not  wonderful, 
therefore,  that  a  lad  to  whom  nature  had  given  a 
powerful  imagination,  and  sensibility  which  amounted 
to  a  disease,  should  have  been  early  haunted  by  reli- 
gious terrors.  Before  he  was  ten,  his  sports  were 
interrupted  by  fits  of  remorse  and  despair;  and  his 
sleep  was  disturbed  by  dreams  of  fiends  trying  to  fly 
away  with  him.  As  he  grew  older,  his  mental  con- 
flicts became  still  more  violent.  The  strong  language 
in  which  he  described  them  has  strangely  misled  all 
his  biographers  except  Mr.  Southey.  It  has  long 
been  an  ordinary  practice  with  pious  writers  to  cite 
Bunyan  as  an  instance  of  the  supernatural  power  of 
divine  grace  to  rescue  the  human  soul  from  the  lowest 
depths  of  wickedness.  He  is  called  in  one  book  the 
most  notorious  of  profligates  ;  in  another,  the  brand 
plucked  from  the  burning.  He  is  designated  in  Mr. 
Ivimey's  History  of  the  Baptists  as  the  depraved 
Bunyan,  the  wicked  tinker  of  Elstow.  Mr.  Ryland, 
a  man  once  of  great  note  among  the  Dissenters,  breaks 
out  into  the  following  rhapsody :  "  No  man  of  com- 
mon sense  and  common  integrity  can  deny  that  Bun- 
yan was  a  practical  atheist,  a  worthless  contemptible 
infidel,  a  vile  rebel  to  God  and  goodness,  a  common 
profligate,  a  soul-despising,  a  soul-murdering,  a  soul- 
damning,  thoughtless  wretch  as  could  exist  on  the 
face  of  the  earth.  Now  be  astonished,  O  heavens, 
to  eternity  !  and  wonder,  O  earth  and  hell !  while  time 


JOHN  BUN  VAN.  233 

endures.  Behold  this  very  man  become  a  miracle  of 
mercy,  a  mirror  of  wisdom,  goodness,  holiness,  truth, 
and  love/1  But  whoever  takes  the  trouble  to  examine 
the  evidence  will  find  that  the  good  men  who  wrote 
this  had  been  deceived  by  a  phraseology  which,  as 
they  had  been  hearing  it  and  using  it  all  their  lives, 
they  ought  to  have  understood  better.  There  can- 
not be  a  greater  mistake  than  to  infer,  from  the  strong 
expressions  in  which  a  devout  man  bemoans  his  ex- 
ceeding sinfulness,  that  he  has  led  a  worse  life  than 
his  neighbors.  Many  excellent  persons,  whose  moral 
character  from  boyhood  to  old  age  has  been  free  from 
any  stain  discernible  to  their  fellow-creatures,  have,  in 
their  autobiographies  and  diaries,  applied  to  them- 
selves, and  doubtless  with  sincerity,  epithets  as  severe 
as  could  be  applied  to  Titus  Oates  or  Mrs.  Brown- 
rigg.  It  is  quite  certain  that  Bunyan  was,  at  eigh- 
teen, what,  in  any  but  the  most  austerely  puritanical 
circles,  would  have  been  considered  as  a  young  man 
of  singular  gravity  and  innocence.  Indeed,  it  may  be 
remarked  that  he,  like  many  other  penitents  who,  in 
general  terms,  acknowledged  themselves  to  have  been 
the  worst  of  mankind,  fired  up  and  stood  vigorously 
on  his  defence,  whenever  any  particular  charge  was 
brought  against  him  by  others.  He  declares,  it  is 
true,  that  he  had  let  loose  the  reins  on  the  neck  of 
his  lusts,  that  he  had  delighted  in  all  transgressions 
against  the  divine  law,  and  that  he  had  been  the  ring- 
leader of  the  youth  of  Elstow  in  all  manner  of  vice. 
But,  when  those  who  wished  him  ill  accused  him  of 
licentious  amours,  he  called  on  God  and  the  angels  to 
attest  his  purity.  No  woman,  he  said,  in  heaven, 
earth,  or  hell,  could  charge  him  with  having  ever 
made  any  improper  advances  to  her.     Not  only  had 


234  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

he  been  strictly  faithful  to  his  wife  ;  but  he  had,  even 
before  his  marriage,  been  perfectly  spotless.  It  does 
not  appear  from  his  own  confessions,  or  from  the 
railings  of  his  enemies,  that  he  ever  was  drunk  in  his 
life.  One  bad  habit  he  contracted,  that  of  using  pro- 
fane language :  but  he  tells  us  that  a  single  reproof 
cured  him  so  effectually  that  he  never  offended  again. 
The  worst  that  can  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  this  poor 
youth,  whom  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  represent  as 
the  most  desperate  of  reprobates,  as  a  village  Roch- 
ester, is  that  he  had  a  great  liking  for  some  diversions, 
quite  harmless  in  themselves,  but  condemned  by  the 
rigid  precisians  among  whom  he  lived,  and  for  whose 
opinion  he  had  a  great  respect.  The  four  chief  sins 
of  which  he  was  guilty  were  dancing,  ringing  the  bells 
of  the  parish  church,  playing  at  tipcat,  and  reading 
the  History  of  Sir  Bevis  of  Southampton.  A  rector 
of  the  school  of  Laud  would  have  held  such  a  young 
man  up  to  the  whole  parish  as  a  model.  But  Bunyan's 
notions  of  good  and  evil  had  been  learned  in  a  very 
different  school ;  and  he  was  made  miserable  by  the 
conflict  between  his  tastes  and  his  scruples. 

When  he  was  about  seventeen,  the  ordinary  course 
of  his  life  was  interrupted  by  an  event  which  gave  a 
lasting  color  to  his  thoughts.  He  enlisted  in  the 
parliamentary  army,  and^  served  during  the  decisive 
campaign  of  1645.  All  that  we  know  of  his  military 
career  is  that,  at  the  siege  of  Leicester,  one  of  his 
comrades,  who  had  taken  his  post,  was  killed  by  a 
shot  from  the  town.  Bunyan  ever  after  considered 
himself  as  having  been  saved  from  death  by  the  inter- 
ference of  Providence.  It  may  be  observed  that  his 
imagination  was  strongly  impressed  by  the  glimpse 
which  he  had  caught  of  the  pomp  of  war.     To  the 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  235 

last  he  loved  to  draw  his  illustrations  of  sacred  things 
from  camps  and  fortresses,  from  guns,  drums,  trum- 
pets, flags  of  truce,  and  regiments  arrayed,  each  under 
its  own  banner.  His  Greatheart,  his  Captain  Boaner- 
ges, and  his  Captain  Credence,  are  evidently  portraits, 
of  which  the  originals  were  among  those  martial 
saints  who  fought  and  expounded  in  Fairfax's  army. 
In  a  few  months  Bunyan  returned  home  and  mar- 
ried. His  wife  had  some  pious  relations,  and  brought 
him  as  her  only  portion  some  pious  books.  And  now 
his  mind,  excitable  by  nature,  very  imperfectly  disci- 
plined by  education,  and  exposed,  without  any  pro- 
tection, to  the  infectious  virulence  of  the  enthusiasm 
which  was  then  epidemic  in  England,  began  to  be 
fearfully  disordered.  In  outward  things  he  soon 
became  a  strict  Pharisee.  He  was  constant  in  attend- 
ance at  prayers  and  sermons.  His  favorite  amuse- 
ments were  one  after  another  relinquished,  though 
not  without  many  painful  struggles.  In  the  middle 
of  a  game  of  tipcat  he  paused,  and  stood  staring  wildly 
upwards  with  his  stick  in  his  hand.  He  had  heard  a 
voice  asking  him  whether  he  would  leave  his  sins  and 
go  to  heaven,  or  keep  his  sins  and  go  to  hell  ;  and  he 
had  seen  an  awful  countenance  frowning  on  him  from 
the  sky.  The  odious  vice  of  bell-ringing  he  re- 
nounced; but  he  still  for  a  time  ventured  to  go  to  the 
church  tower  and  look  on  while  others  pulled  the 
ropes.  But  soon  the  thought  struck  him  that,  if  he 
persisted  in  such  wickedness,  the  steeple  would  fall 
on  his  head  ;  and  he  fled  in  terror  from  the  accursed 
place.  To  give  up  dancing  on  the  village  green  was 
still  harder  ;  and  some  months  elapsed  before  he  had 
the  fortitude  to  part  with  this  darling  sin.  When 
this  last  sacrifice  had  been  made,  he  was,  even  when 


236  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

tried  by  the  maxims  of  that  austere  time,  faultless. 
All  Elstow  talked  of  him  as  an  eminently  pious 
youth.  But  his  own  mind  was  more  unquiet  than 
ever.  Having  nothing  more  to  do  in  the  way  of  visi- 
ble reformation,  yet  finding  in  religion  no  pleasures  to 
supply  the  place  of  the  juvenile  amusements  which  he 
had  relinquished,  he  began  to  apprehend  that  he  lay 
under  some  special  malediction ;  and  he  was  tor- 
mented by  a  succession  of  fantasies  which  seemed 
likely  to  drive  him  to  suicide  or  to  Bedlam. 

At  one  time  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  all  per- 
sons of  Israelite  blood  would  be  saved,  and  tried  to 
make  out  that  he  partook  of  that  blood  ;  but  his 
hopes  were  speedily  destroyed  by  his  father,  who 
seems  to  have  had  no  ambition  to  be  regarded  as  a  Jew. 

At  another  time  Bunyan  was  disturbed  by  a  strange 
dilemma  :  "  If  I  have  not  faith,  I  am  lost ;  if  I  have 
faith,  I  can  work  miracles.'"  He  was  tempted  to  cry 
to  the  puddles  between  Elstow  and  Bedford,  "  Be  ye 
dry,1'  and  to  stake  his  eternal  hopes  on  the  event. 

Then  he  took  up  a  notion  that  the  day  of  grace  for 
Bedford  and  the  neighboring  villages  was  past ;  that 
all  who  were  to  be  saved  in  that  part  of  England  were 
already  converted ;  and  that  he  had  begun  to  pray 
and  strive  some  months  too  late. 

Then  he  was  harassed  by  doubts  whether  the 
Turks  were  not  in  the  right,  and  the  Christians  in 
the  wrong.  Then  he  was  troubled  by  a  maniacal 
impulse  which  prompted  him  to  pray  to  the  trees,  to 
a  broomstick,  to  the  parish  bull.  As  yet,  however,  he 
was  only  entering  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death. 
Soon  the  darkness  grew  thicker.  Hideous  forms 
floated  before  him.  Sounds  of  cursing  and  wailing 
were  in  his  ears.     His  way  ran  through  stench  and 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  237 

fire,  close  to  the  mouth  of  the  bottomless  pit.  He 
began  to  be  haunted  by  a  strange  curiosity  about  the 
unpardonable  sin,  and  by  a  morbid  longing  to  com- 
mit it.  But  the  most  frightful  of  all  the  forms  which 
his  disease  took  was  a  propensity  to  utter  blasphemy, 
and  especially  to  renounce  his  share  in  the  benefits 
of  the  redemption.  Night  and  day,  in  bed,  at  table, 
at  work,  evil  spirits,  as  he  imagined,  were  repeating 
close  to  his  ear  the  words,  "  Sell  him,  Sell  him."  He 
struck  at  the  hobgoblins  ;  he  pushed  them  from  him  ; 
but  still  they  were  ever  at  his  side.  He  cried  out  in 
answer  to  them,  hour  after  hour :  "  Never,  never ;  not 
for  thousands  of  worlds,  not  for  thousands."  At 
length,  worn  out  by  this  long  agony,  he  suffered  the 
fatal  words  to  escape  him,  "Let  him  go,  if  he  will." 
Then  his  misery  became  more  fearful  than  ever.  He 
had  done  what  could  not  be  forgiven.  He  had  for- 
feited his  part  of  the  great  sacrifice.  Like  Esau,  he 
had  sold  his  birthright ;  and  there  was  no  longer  any 
place  for  repentance.  "  None,"  he  afterwards  wrote, 
"know  the  terrors  of  those  days  but  myself."  He 
has  described  his  sufferings  with  singular  energy, 
simplicity,  and  pathos.  He  envied  the  brutes ;  he 
envied  the  very  stones  in  the  street,  and  the  tiles  on 
the  houses.  The  sun  seemed  to  withhold  its  light 
and  warmth  from  him.  His  body,  though  cast  in  a 
sturdy  mould,  and  though  still  in  the  highest  vigor 
of  youth,  trembled  whole  days  together  with  the  fear 
of  death  and  judgment.  He  fancied  that  his  trem- 
bling was  the  sign  set  on  the  worst  reprobates,  the 
sign  which  God  had  put  on  Cain.  The  unhappy 
man's  emotion  destroyed  his  power  of  digestion.  He 
had  such  pains  that  he  expected  to  burst  asunder  like 
Judas,  whom  he  regarded  as  his  prototype. 


238  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Neither  the  books  which  Bunyan  read,  nor  the 
advisers  whom  he  consulted,  were  likely  to  do  much 
good  in  a  case  like  this.  His  small  library  had  re- 
ceived a  most  unseasonable  addition,  the  account  of 
the  lamentable  end  of  Francis  Spira.  One  ancient 
man  of  high  repute  for  piety,  whom  the  sufferer 
consulted,  gave  an  opinion  which  might  well  have 
produced  fatal  consequences.  "I  am  afraid,"  said 
Bunyan,  "  that  I  have  committed  the  sin  against  the 
Holy  Ghost.*''  "  Indeed,"'  said  the  old  fanatic,  "  I  am 
afraid  that  you  have.11 

At  length  the  clouds  broke ;  the  light  became 
clearer  and  clearer ;  and  the  enthusiast,  who  had 
imagined  that  he  was  branded  with  the  mark  of  the 
first  murderer,  and  destined  to  the  end  of  the  arch 
traitor,  enjoyed  peace  and  a  cheerful  confidence  in 
the  mercy  of  God.  Years  elapsed,  however,  before 
his  nerves,  which  had  been  so  perilously  overstrained, 
recovered  their  tone.  When  he  had  joined  a  Baptist 
society  at  Bedford,  and  was  for  the  first  time  admitted 
to  partake  of  the  Eucharist,  it  was  with  difficulty  that 
he  could  refrain  from  imprecating  destruction  on  his 
brethren  while  the  cup  was  passing  from  hand  to 
hand.  After  he  had  been  some  time  a  member  of 
the  congregation,  he  began  to  preach  ;  and  his  ser- 
mons produced  a  powerful  effect.  He  was  indeed 
illiterate  ;  but  he  spoke  to  illiterate  men.  The  severe 
training  through  which  he  had  passed  had  given  him 
such  an  experimental  knowledge  of  all  the  modes  of 
religious  melancholy  as  he  could  never  have  gathered 
from  books  ;  and  his  vigorous  genius,  animated  by  a 
fervent  spirit  of  devotion,  enabled  him,  not  only  to 
exercise  a  great  influence  over  the  vulgar,  but  even  to 
extort  the  half-contemptuous  admiration  of  scholars. 


JOHN  BUN Y AN.  239 

Yet  it  was  long  before  he  ceased  to  be  tormented  by 
an  impulse  which  urged  him  to  utter  words  of  horri- 
ble impiety  in  the  pulpit. 

Counter-irritants  are  of  as  great  use  in  moral  as  in 
physical  diseases.  It  should  seem  that  Bunyan  was 
finally  relieved  from  the  internal  sufferings  which  had 
embittered  his  life  by  sharp  persecution  from  without. 
He  had  been  five  years  a  preacher,  when  the  Restora- 
tion put  it  in  the  power  of  the  Cavalier  gentlemen 
and  clergymen  all  over  the  country  to  oppress  the 
Dissenters  ;  and,  of  all  the  Dissenters  whose  history 
is  known  to  us,  he  was  perhaps  the  most  hardly  treated. 
In  November,  1660,  he  was  flung  into  Bedford  jail; 
and  there  he  remained,  with  some  intervals  of  partial 
and  precarious  liberty,  during  twelve  years.  His  per- 
secutors tried  to  extort  from  him  a  promise  that  he 
would  abstain  from  preaching ;  but  he  was  convinced 
that  he  was  divinely  set  apart  and  commissioned  to 
be  a  teacher  of  righteousness ;  and  he  was  fully 
determined  to  obey  God  rather  than  man.  He  was 
brought  before  several  tribunals,  laughed  at,  caressed, 
reviled,  menaced,  but  in  vain.  He  was  facetiously 
told  that  he  was  quite  right  in  thinking  that  he  ought 
not  to  hide  his  gift ;  but  that  his  real  gift  was  skill 
in  repairing  old  kettles.  He  was  compared  to  Alex- 
ander the  coppersmith.  He  was  told  that,  if  he  would 
give  up  preaching,  he  should  be  instantly  liberated. 
He  was  warned  that,  if  he  persisted  in  disobeying  the 
law,  he  would  be  liable  to  banishment,  and  that,  if  he 
were  found  in  England  after  a  certain  time,  his  neck 
would  be  stretched.  His  answer  was,  "  If  you  let  me 
out  to-day,  I  will  preach  again  to-morrow."  Year 
after  year  he  lay  patiently  in  a  dungeon,  compared 
with  which  the  worst  prison  now  to  be  found  in  the 


240  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

island  is  a  palace.  His  fortitude  is  the  more  extraor- 
dinary, because  his  domestic  feelings  were  unusually 
strong.  Indeed,  he  was  considered  by  his  stern 
brethren  as  somewhat  too  fond  and  indulgent  a 
parent.  He  had  several  small  children,  and  among 
them  a  daughter  who  was  blind,  and  whom  he  loved 
with  peculiar  tenderness.  He  could  not,  he  said,  bear 
even  to  let  the  wind  blow  on  her ;  and  now  she  must 
suffer  cold  and  hunger ;  she  must  beg ;  she  must  be 
beaten;  "yet,"  he  added,  "I  must  do  it.'1  While  he 
lay  in  prison  he  could  do  nothing  in  the  way  of  his 
old  trade  for  the  support  of  his  family.  He  deter- 
mined, therefore,  to  take  up  a  new  trade.  He  learned 
to  make  long  tagged  thread  laces ;  and  many  thou- 
sands of  these  articles  were  furnished  by  him  to  the 
hawkers.  While  his  hands  were  thus  busied,  he  had 
other  employment  for  his  mind  and  his  lips.  He 
gave  religious  instruction  to  his  fellow-captives,  and 
formed  from  among  them  a  little  flock,  of  which  he 
was  himself  the  pastor.  He  studied  indefatigably  the 
few  books  which  he  possessed.  His  two  chief  com- 
panions were  the  Bible  and  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs. 
His  knowledge  of  the  Bible  was  such  that  he  might 
have  been  called  a  living  concordance ;  and  on  the 
margin  of  his  copy  of  the  Book  of  Martyrs  are  still 
legible  the  ill-spelt  lines  of  doggerel  in  which  he 
expressed  his  reverence  for  the  brave  sufferers,  and 
his  implacable  enmity  to  the  mystical  Babylon. 

At  length  he  began  to  write  ;  and.  though  it  was 
some  time  before  he  discovered  where  his  strength 
lay.  his  writings  were  not  unsuccessful.  They  were 
coarse,  indeed ;  but  they  showed  a  keen  mother  wit, 
a  great  command  of  the  homely  mother  tongue,  an 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  English  Bible,  and  a  vast 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  24 1 

and  dearly  bought  spiritual  experience.  They,  there- 
fore, when  the  corrector  of  the  press  had  improved 
the  syntax  and  the  spelling,  were  well  received  by  the 
humbler  class  of  Dissenters. 

Much  of  Bunyan's  time  was  spent  in  controversy. 
He  wrote  sharply  against  the  Quakers,  whom  he 
seems  always  to  have  held  in  utter  abhorrence.  It  is, 
however,  a  remarkable  fact  that  he  adopted  one  of 
their  peculiar  fashions  :  his  practice  was  to  write,  not 
November  or  December,  but  eleventh  month  and 
twelfth  month. 

He  wrote  against  the  liturgy  of  the  Church  of  Eng- 
land. No  two  things,  according  to  him,  had  less 
affinity  than  the  form  of  prayer  and  the  spirit  of 
prayer.  Those,  he  said  with  much  point,  who  have 
most  of  the  spirit  of  prayer  are  all  to  be  found  in  jail ; 
and  those  who  have  most  zeal  for  the  form  of  prayer 
are  all  to  be  found  at  the  alehouse.  The  doctrinal 
articles,  on  the  other  hand,  he  warmly  praised,  and 
defended  against  some  Arminian  clergymen  who  had 
signed  them.  The  most  acrimonious  of  all  his  work:; 
is  his  answer  to  Edward  Fowler,  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Gloucester,  an  excellent  man,  but  not  free  from  the 
taint  of  Pelagianism. 

Bunyan  had  also  a  dispute  with  some  of  the  chiefs 
of  the  sect  to  which  he  belonged.  He  doubtless 
held  with  perfect  sincerity  the  distinguishing  tenet  of 
that  sect ;  but  he  did  not  consider  that  tenet  as  one 
of  high  importance,  and  willingly  joined  in  commun- 
ion with  quiet  Presbyterians  and  Independents.  The 
sterner  Baptists,  therefore,  loudly  pronounced  him  a 
false  brother.  A  controversy  arose  which  long  sur- 
vived the  original  combatants.  In  our  own  time  the 
cause   which    Bunyan  had  defended  with  rude  logic 


242  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

and  rhetoric  against  Kiffin  and  Danvers  was  pleaded 
by  Robert  Hall  with  an  ingenuity  and  eloquence  such 
as  no  polemical  writer  has  ever  surpassed. 

During  the  years  which  immediately  followed  the 
Restoration,  Bunyan's  confinement  seems  to  have 
been  strict.  But.  as  the  passions  of  1660  cooled,  as 
the  hatred  with  which  the  Puritans  had  been  regarded 
while  their  reign  was  recent  gave  place  to  pity,  he 
was  less  and  less  harshly  treated.  The  distress  of 
his  family,  and  his  own  patience,  courage,  and  piety 
softened  the  hearts  of  his  persecutors.  Like  his 
own  Christian  in  the  cage,  he  found  protectors  even 
among  the  crowd  of  Vanity  Fair.  The  bishop  of 
the  diocese,  Dr.  Barlow,  is  said  to  have  interceded 
for  him.  At  length  the  prisoner  was  suffered  to  pass 
most  of  his  time  beyond  the  walls  of  the  jail,  on  con- 
dition, as  it  should  seem,  that  he  remained  within 
the  town  of  Bedford. 

He  owed  his  complete  liberation  to  one  of  the 
worst  acts  of  one  of  the  worst  governments  that  Eng- 
land has  ever  seen.  In  1671  the  Cabal  was  in  power. 
Charles  II.  had  concluded  the  treaty  by  which  he 
bound  himself  to  set  up  the  Roman  Catholic  religion 
in  England.  The  first  step  which  he  took  towards 
that  end  was  to  annul,  by  an  unconstitutional  exer- 
cise of  his  prerogative,  all  the  penal  statutes  against 
the  Roman  Catholics  ;  and,  in  order  to  disguise  his 
real  design,  he  annulled  at  the  same  time  the  penal 
statutes  against  Protestant  nonconformists.  Bunyan 
was  consequently  set  at  large.  In  the  first  warmth  of 
his  gratitude  he  published  a  tract  in  which  he  com- 
pared Charles  to  that  humane  and  generous  Persian 
king,  who,  though  not  himself  blessed  with  the  light 
of  the  true  religion,  favored  the  chosen  people,  and 


JOHN  BUNYAN  243 

permitted  them,  after  years  of  captivity,  to  rebuild 
their  beloved  temple.  To  candid  men,  who  consider 
how  much  Bunyan  had  suffered,  and  how  little  he 
could  guess  the  secret  designs  of  the  court,  the  unsus- 
picious thankfulness  with  which  he  accepted  the 
precious  boon  of  freedom  will  not  appear  to  require 
any  apology. 

Before  he  left  his  prison  he  had  begun  the  book 
which  has  made  his  name  immortal.  The  history  of  that 
book  is  remarkable.  The  author  was,  as  he  tells  us, 
writing  a  treatise,  in  which  he  had  occasion  to  speak 
of  the  stages  of  the  Christian  progress.  He  com- 
pared that  progress,  as  many  others  had  compared  it, 
to  a  pilgrimage.  Soon  his  quick  wit  discovered  in- 
numerable points  of  similarity  which  had  escaped  his 
predecessors.  Images  came  crowding  on  his  mind 
faster  than  he  could  put  them  into  words,  quagmires 
and  pits,  steep  hills,  dark  and  horrible  glens,  soft  vales, 
sunny  pastures,  a  gloomy  castle  of  which  the  court- 
yard was  strewn  with  the  skulls  and  bones  of  murdered 
prisoners,  a  town  all  bustle  and  splendor,  like  London 
on  the  Lord  Mayor's  Day,  and  the  narrow  path, 
straight  as  a  rule  could  make  it,  running  on  up  hill 
and  down  hill,  through  city  and  through  wilderness, 
to  the  Black  River  and  the  Shining  Gate.  He  had 
found  out,  as  most  people  would  have  said,  by  acci- 
dent, as  he  would  doubtless  have  said,  by  the  guidance 
of  Providence,  where  his  powers  lay.  He  had  no 
suspicion,  indeed,  that  he  was  producing  a  master- 
piece. He  could  not  guess  what  place  his  allegory 
would  occupy  in  English  literature ;  for  of  English 
literature  he  knew  nothing.  Those  who  suppose 
him  to  have  studied  the  Fairy  Queen  might  easily  be 
confuted,  if  this  were  the  proper  place  for  a  detailed 


244  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

examination  of  the  passages  in  which  the  two  allego- 
ries have  been  brought  to  resemble  each  other.  The 
only  work  of  fiction,  in  all  probability,  with  which  he 
could  compare  his  pilgrim,  was  his  old  favorite,  the 
legend  of  Sir  Bevis  of  Southampton.  He  would  have 
thought  it  a  sin  to  borrow  any  time  from  the  serious 
business  of  his  life,  from  his  expositions,  his  contro- 
versies, and  his  lace  tags,  for  the  purpose  of  amusing 
himself  with  what  he  considered  merely  as  a  trifle.  It 
was  only,  he  assures  us,  at  spare  moments  that  he 
returned  to  the  House  Beautiful,  the  Delectable_ 
Mountains,  and  the  Enchanted  Ground.  He  had  no' 
assistance.  Nobody  but  himself  saw  a  line  tilMhe^ 
whole  was  complete.  He  then  consulted  his  "pious 
friends.  Some  were  pleased.  Others  were  much 
scandalized.  It  was  a  vain  story,  a  mere  romance, 
about  giants,  and  lions,  and  goblins,  and  warriors, 
sometimes  fighting  with  monsters  and  sometimes 
regaled  by  fair  ladies  in  stately  palaces.  The  loose 
atheistical  wits  at  Will's  might  write  such  stuff  to 
divert  the  painted  Jezebels  of  the  court ;  but  did  it 
become  a  minister  of  the  gospel  to  copy  the  evil  fash- 
ions of  the  world  ?  There  had  been  a  time  when 
the  cant  of  such  fools  would  have  made  Bunyan  mis- 
erable. But  that  time  was  passed  ;  and  his  mind  was 
now  in  a  firm  and  healthy  state.  He  saw  that,  in 
employing  fiction  to  make  truth  clear  and  goodness 
attractive,  he  was  only  following  the  example  which 
every  Christian  ought  to  propose  to  himself;  and  he 
determined  to  print. 

The  '-Pilgrim's  Progress "  stole  silently  into  the 
world.  Not  a  single  copy  of  the  first  edition  is  known 
to  be  in  existence.  The  year  of  publication  has  not 
been  ascertained.     It  is  probable  that,  during  some 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  245 

months,  the  little  volume  circulated  only  among  poor 
and  obscure  sectaries.  But  soon  the  irresistible 
charm  of  a  book  which  gratified  the  imagination  of 
the  reader  with  all  the  action  and  scenery  of  a 
fairy  tale,  which  exercised  his  ingenuity  by  setting 
him  to  discover  a  multitude  of  curious  analogies,  which 
interested  his  feelings  for  human  beings,  frail  like 
himself,  and  struggling  with  temptations  from  within 
and  from  without,  which  every  moment  drew  a  smile 
from  him  by  some  stroke  of  quaint  yet  simple  pleas- 
antry, and  nevertheless  left  on  his  mind  a  senti- 
ment of  reverence  for  God  and  of  sympathy  for 
man,  began  to  produce  its  effect.  In  puritanical 
circles,  from  which  plays  and  novels  were  strictly 
excluded,  that  effect  was  such  as  no  work  of  genius, 
though  it  were  superior  to  the  Iliad,  to  Don  Quixote, 
or  to  Othello,  can  ever  produce  on  a  mind  accus- 
tomed to  indulge  in  literary  luxury.  In  1678  came 
forth  a  second  edition  with  additions ;  and  then  the 
demand  became  immense.  In  the  four  following 
years  the  book  was  reprinted  six  times.  The  eighth 
edition,  which  contains  the  last  improvements 
made  by  the  author,  was  published  in  1682,  the 
ninth  in  1684,  the  tenth  in  1685.  The  help  of  the 
engraver  had  early  been  called  in  ;  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  children  looked  with  terror  and  delight  on 
execrable  copper-plates,  which  represented  Christian 
thrusting  his  sword  into  Apollyon,  or  writhing  in  the 
grasp  of  Giant  Despair.  In  Scotland,  and  in  some  of 
the  colonies,  the  Pilgrim  was  even  more  popular  than 
in  his  native  country.  Bunyan  has  told  us,  with 
very  pardonable  vanity,  that  in  New  England  his 
dream  was  the  daily  subject  of  the  conversation  of 
thousands,  and  was  thought  worthy  to  appear  in  the 


246  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

most  superb  binding.  He  had  numerous  admirers 
in  Holland,  and  among  the  Huguenots  of  France. 
With  the  pleasures,  however,  he  experienced  some 
of  the  pains  of  eminence.  Knavish  booksellers  put 
forth  volumes  of  trash  under  his  name  ;  and  envious 
scribblers  maintained  it  to  be  impossible  that  the 
poor  ignorant  tinker  should  really  be  the  author  of 
the  book  which  was  called  his. 

He  took  the  best  way  to  confound  those  who  coun- 
terfeited him  and  those  who  slandered  him.  He 
continued  to  work  the  gold-field  which  he  had  dis- 
covered, and  to  draw  from  it  new  treasures,  not  indeed 
with  quite  such  ease  and  in  quite  such  abundance  as 
when  the  precious  soil  was  still  virgin,  but  yet  with 
success  which  left  all  competition  far  behind.  In 
1684  appeared  the  second  part  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Prog^ 
ress.11  It  was  soon  followed  by  the  "  Holy  War," 
which,  if  the  •'Pilgrim's  Progress "  did  not  exist, 
would  be  the  best  allegory  that  ever  was  written. 

Bunyan's  place  in  society  was  now  very  different 
from  what  it  had  been.  There  had  been  a  time  when 
many  Dissenting  ministers,  who  could  talk  Latin  and 
read  Greek,  had  affected  to  treat  him  with  scorn.  But 
his  fame  and  influence  now  far  exceeded  theirs.  He 
had  so  great  an  authority  among  the  Baptists  that  he 
was  popularly  called  Bishop  Bunyan.  His  episcopal 
visitations  were  annual.  From  Bedford  he  rode  every 
year  to  London,  and  preached  there  to  large  and  atten- 
tive congregations.  From  London  he  went  his  circuit 
through  the  country,  animating  the  zeal  of  his  brethren, 
collecting  and  distributing  alms,  and  making  up  quar- 
rels. The  magistrates  seem  in  general  to  have  given 
him  little  trouble.  But  there  is  reason  to  believe 
that,  in  the  year  1685,  he  was  in  some  danger  of  again 


JOHN  BUNYAN.  247 

occupying  his  old  quarters  in  Bedfold  jail.  In  that  year 
the  rash  and  wicked  enterprise  of  Monmouth  gave  the 
Government  a  pretext  for  prosecuting  the  Noncon- 
formists ;  and  scarcely  one  eminent  divine  of  the 
Presbyterian,  Independent,  or  Baptist  persuasion 
remained  unmolested.  Baxter  was  in  prison:  Howe 
was  driven  into  exile :  Henry  was  arrested.  Two 
eminent  Baptists,  with  whom  Bunyan  had  been 
engaged  in  controversy,  were  in  great  peril  and  dis- 
tress. Danvers  was  in  danger  of  being  hanged ;  and 
Kiffin's  grandsons  were  actually  hanged.  The  tradi- 
tion is  that,  during  those  evil  days,  Bunyan  was  forced 
to  disguise  himself  as  a  wagoner,  and  that  he  preached 
to  his  congregation  at  Bedford  in  a  smock-frock,  with 
a  cart-whip  in  his  hand.  But  soon  a  great  change  took 
place.  James  the  Second  was  at  open  war  with  the 
church,  and  found  it  necessary  to  court  the  Dissenters. 
Some  of  the  creatures  of  the  government  tried  to 
secure  the  aid  of  Bunyan.  They  probably  knew  that 
he  had  written  in  praise  of  the  indulgence  of  1672, 
and  therefore  hoped  that  he  might  be  equally  pleased 
with  the  indulgence  of  1687.  But  fifteen  years  of 
thought,  observation,  and  commerce  with  the  world 
had  made  him  wiser.  Nor  were  the  cases  exactly 
parallel.  Charles  was  a  professed  Protestant :  James 
was  a  professed  Papist.  The  object  of  Charles's  indul- 
gence was  disguised  :  the  object  of  James's  indulgence 
was  patent.  Bunyan  was  not  deceived.  He  exhorted 
his  hearers  to  prepare  themselves  by  fasting  and  prayer 
for  the  danger  which  menaced  their  civil  and  religious 
liberties,  and  refused  even  to  speak  to  the  courtier  who 
came  down  to  remodel  the  corporation  of  Bedford,  and 
who,  as  was  supposed,  had  it  in  charge  to  offer  some 
municipal  dignity  to  the  Bishop  of  the  Baptists. 


248  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Bunyan  did  not  live  to  see  the  Revolution.  In  the 
summer  of  1688  he  undertook  to  plead  the  cause  of  a 
son  with  an  angry  father,  and  at  length  prevailed  on 
the  old  man  not  to  disinherit  the  young  one.  This 
good  work  cost  the  benevolent  intercessor  his  life. 
He  had  to  ride  through  heavy  rain.  He  came  drenched 
to  his  lodgings  on  Snow  Hill,  was  seized  with  a  violent 
fever,  and  died  in  a  few  days.  He  was  buried  in  Bun- 
hill  Fields  ;  and  the  spot  where  he  lies  is  still  regarded 
by  the  Nonconformists  with  a  feeling  which  seems 
scarcely  in  harmony  with  the  stern  spirit  of  their 
theology.  Many  puritans,  to  whom  the  respect  paid 
by  Roman  Catholics  to  the  reliques  and  tombs  of 
saints  seemed  childish  or  sinful,  are  said  to  have 
begged  with  their  dying  breath  that  their  coffins 
might  be  placed  as  near  as  possible  to  the  coffin  of 
the  author  of  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

The  fame  of  Bunyan  during  his  life,  and  during  the 
century  which  followed  his  death,  was  indeed  great, 
but  was  almost  entirely  confined  to  religious  families 
of  the  middle  and  lower  classes.  Very  seldom  was 
he  during  that  time  mentioned  with  respect  by  any 
writer  of  great  literary  eminence.  Young  coupled 
his  prose  with  the  poetry  of  the  wretched  D'Urfey. 
In  the  Spiritual  Quixote,  the  adventures  of  Christian 
are  ranked  with  those  of  Jack  the  Giant-Killer  and 
John  Hickathrift.  Cowper  ventured  to  praise  the 
great  allegorist,  but  did  not  venture  to  name  him. 
It  is  a  significant  circumstance  that,  till  a  recent 
period,  all  the  numerous  editions  of  the  "Pilgrim's 
Progress "  were  evidently  meant  for  the  cottage  and 
the  servants1  hall.  The  paper,  the  printing,  the  plates 
were  all  of  the  meanest  description.  In  general, 
when  the  educated  minority  and  the  common  people 


JOHN  BUN  VAN  249 

differ  about  the  merit  of  a  book,  the  opinion  of  the 
educated  minority  finally  prevails.  The  "  Pilgrim's 
Progress "  is  perhaps  the  only  book  about  which, 
after  the  lapse  of  a  hundred  years,  the  educated  mi- 
nority has  come  over  to  the  opinion  of  the  common 
people. 

The  attempts  which  have  been  made  to  improve 
and  to  imitate  this  book  are  not  to  be  numbered.  It 
has  been  done  into  verse :  it  has  been  done  into 
modern  English.  "The  Pilgrimage  of  Tender  Con- 
science,1' "  The  Pilgrimage  of  Good  Intent,"  "  The 
Pilgrimage  of  Seek  Truth,"  "  The  Pilgrimage  of  The- 
ophiius,"  "The  Infant  Pilgrim,"  "  The  Hindoo  Pilgrim/' 
are  among  the  many  feeble  copies  of  the  great  orig- 
inal. But  the  peculiar  glory  of  Bunyan  is,  that  those 
who  most  hated  his  doctrines  have  tried  to  borrow 
the  help  of  his  genius.  A  Catholic  version  of  his 
parable  may  be  seen  with  the  head  of  the  Virgin  in 
the  title  page.  On  the  other  hand,  those  Antino- 
mians  for  whom  his  Calvinism  is  not  strong  enough 
may  study  the  pilgrimage  of  Hephzibah,  in  which 
nothing  will  be  found  which  can  be  construed  into 
an  admission  of  free  agency  and  universal  redemption. 
But  the  most  extraordinary  of  all  the  acts  of  Vandal- 
ism by  which  a  fine  work  of  art  was  ever  defaced  was 
committed  so  late  as  the  year  1853.  It  was  deter- 
mined to  transform  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  into  a 
Tractarian  book.  The  task  was  not  easy:  for  it  was 
necessary  to  make  the  two  sacraments  the  most  prom- 
inent objects  in  the  allegory ;  and  of  all  Christian 
theologians,  avowed  Quakers  excepted,  Bunyan  was 
the  one  in  whose  system  the  sacraments  held  the 
least  prominent  place.  However,  the  Wicket  Gate 
became  a  type  of  Baptism,  and  the  House  Beautiful 


250  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

of  the  Eucharist.  The  effect  of  this  change  is  such 
as  assuredly  the  ingenious  person  who  made  it  never 
contemplated.  For,  as  not  a  single  pilgrim  passes 
through  the  Wicket  Gate  in  infancy,  and  as  Faithful 
hurries  past  the  House  Beautiful  without  stopping, 
the  lesson  which  the  fable  in  its  altered  shape 
teaches,  is  that  none  but  adults  ought  to  be  baptized, 
and  that  the  Eucharist  may  safely  be  neglected. 
Nobody  would  have  discovered  from  the  original 
"  Pilgrim's  Progress "  that  the  author  was  not  a 
Paedobaptist.  To  turn  his  book  into  a  book  against 
Pasdobaptism  was  an  achievement  reserved  for  an 
Anglo-Catholic  divine.  Such  blunders  must  neces- 
sarily be  committed  by  every  man  who  mutilates  parts 
of  a  great  work,  without  taking  a  comprehensive  view 
of  the  whole. 


/ 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH. 

1728-1774. 

This  essay  was  contributed  to  the  Encyclopedia 
Brrtannica  in  February,  1856.  It  was  the  last  but 
two  of  the  series  which  included  essays  on  Atterbury, 
Bunyan,  Goldsmith,  Johnson,  and  William  Pitt. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  one  of  the  most  pleasing  Eng- 
lish writers  of  the  eighteenth  century.  He  was  of  a 
Protestant  and  Saxon  family  which  had  been  long 
settled  in  Ireland,  and  which  had,  like  most  other  Prot- 
estant and  Saxon  families,  been,  in  troubled  times, 
harassed  and  put  in  fear  by  the  native  population. 
His  father,  Charles  Goldsmith,  studied  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Anne  at  the  diocesan  school  of  Elphin,  became 
attached  to  the  daughter  of  the  schoolmaster,  married 
her,  took  orders,  and  settled  at  a  place  called  Pallas 
in  the  county  of  Longford.  There  he  with  difficulty 
supported  his  wife  and  children  on  what  he  could  earn, 
partly  as  a  curate  and  partly  as  a  farmer. 

At  Pallas  Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born,  in  November, 
1728.  The  spot  was  then,  for  all  practical  purposes, 
almost  as  remote  from  the  busy  and  splendid  capital 
in  which  his  later  years  were  passed,  as  any  clearing 
in  Upper  Canada  or  any  sheep-walk  in  Australasia  now 
is.  Even  at  this  day  those  enthusiasts  who  venture 
to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  the  birth-place  of  the  poet,  are 
forced  to  perform  the  latter  part  of  their  journey  on 
251 


252  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

foot.  The  hamlet  lies  far  from  any  high  road,  on  a 
dreary  plain  which,  in  wet  weather,  is  often  a  lake. 
The  lanes  would  break  any  jaunting  car  to  pieces ; 
and  there  are  ruts  and  sloughs  through  which  the  most 
strongly  built  wheels  cannot  be  dragged. 

While  Oliver  was  still  a  child,  his  father  was  pre- 
sented to  a  living  worth  about  200/.  a  year,  in  the 
county  of  Westmeath.  The  family  accordingly  quitted 
their  cottage  in  the  wilderness  for  a  spacious  house  on 
a  frequented  road,  near  the  village  of  Lissoy.  Here 
the  boy  was  taught  his  letters  by  a  maid-servant,  and 
was  sent  in  his  seventh  year  to  a  village  school  kept 
by  an  old  quartermaster  on  half-pay,  who  professed  to 
teach  nothing  but  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic,  but 
who  had  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  stories  about  ghosts, 
banshees,  and  fairies,  about  the  great  Rapparee  chiefs, 
Baldearg  O'Donnell  and  galloping  Hogan,  and  about 
the  exploits  of  Peterborough  and  Stanhope,  the  sur- 
prise of  Monjuich,  and  the  glorious  disaster  of  Bri- 
huega.  This  man  must  have  been  of  the  Protestant 
religion ;  but  he  was  of  the  aboriginal  race,  and  not 
only  spoke  the  Irish  language,  but  could  pour  forth 
unpremeditated  Irish  verses.  Oliver  early  became, 
and  through  life  continued  to  be,  a  passionate  admirer 
of  the  Irish  music,  and  especially  of  the  compositions 
of  Carolan,  some  of  the  last  notes  of  whose  harp  he 
heard.  It  ought  to  be  added  that  Oliver,  though  by 
birth  one  of  the  Englishry,  and  though  connected  by 
numerous  ties  with  the  Established  Church,  never 
showed  the  least  sign  of  that  contemptuous  antipathy 
with  which,  in  his  days,  the  ruling  minority  in  Ireland 
too  generally  regarded  the  subject  majority.  So  far 
indeed  was  he  from  sharing  in  the  opinions  and  feel- 
ings of  the  caste  to  which  he  belonged,  that  he  con- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  253 

ceived  an  aversion  to  the  Glorious  and  Immorta. 
Memory,  and,  even  when  George  the  Third  was  on 
the  throne,  maintained  that  nothing  but  the  restora- 
tion of  the  banished  dynasty  could  save  the  country. 

From  the  humble  academy  kept  by  the  old  soldier 
Goldsmith  was  removed  in  his  ninth  year.  He  went 
to  several  grammar-schools,  and  acquired  some  knowl- 
edge of  the  ancient  languages.  His  life  at  this  time 
seems  to  have  been  far  from  happy.  He  had,  as  ap- 
pears from  the  admirable  portrait  of  him  at  Knowle, 
features  harsh  even  to  ugliness.  The  small-pox  had 
set  its  mark  on  him  with  more  than  usual  severity. 
His  stature  was  small,  and  his  limbs  ill  put  together. 
Among  boys  little  tenderness  is  shown  to  personal 
defects ;  and  the  ridicule  excited  by  poor  Oliver's 
appearance  was  heightened  by  a  peculiar  simplicity 
and  a  disposition  to  blunder  which  he  retained  to  the 
last.  He  became  the  common  butt  of  boys  and  mas- 
ters, was  pointed  at  as  a  fright  in  the  playground,  and 
flogged  as  a  dunce  in  the  schoolroom.  When  he  had 
risen  to  eminence,  those  who  had  once  derided  him 
ransacked  their  memory  for  the  events  of  his  early 
years,  and  recited  repartees  and  couplets  which  had 
dropped  from  him,  and  which,  though  little  noticed  at 
the  time,  were  supposed,  a  quarter  of  a  century  later,  to 
indicate  the  powers  which  produced  the  "  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  "  and  the  "  Deserted  Village.1' 

In  his  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went  up  to  Trinity 
College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar.  The  sizars  paid  nothing 
for  food  and  tuition,  and  very  little  for  lodging ;  but 
they  had  to  perform  some  menial  services  from  which 
they  have  long  been  relieved.  They  swept  the 
court ;  they  carried  up  the  dinner  to  the  fellows1  table, 
and  changed  the  plates  and  poured  out  the  ale  of  the 


254  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

rulers  of  the  society.  Goldsmith  was  quartered,  not 
alone,  in  a  garret,  on  the  window  of  which  his  name, 
scrawled  by  himself,  is  still  read  with  interest.1  From 
such  garrets  many  men  of  less  parts  than  his  have 
made  their  way  to  the  woolsack  or  to  the  episcopal 
bench.  But  Goldsmith,  while  he  suffered  all  the 
humiliations,  threw  away  all  the  advantages  of  his 
situation.  He  neglected  the  studies  of  the  place, 
stood  low  at  the  examinations,  was  turned  down  to 
the  bottom  of  his  class  for  playing  the  buffoon  in  the 
lecture-room,  was  severely  reprimanded  for  pumping 
on  a  constable,  and  was  caned  by  a  brutal  tutor  for 
giving  a  ball  in  the  attic  story  of  the  college  to  some 
gay  youths  and  damsels  from  the  city. 

While  Oliver  was  leading  at  Dublin  a  life  divided 
between  squalid  distress  and  squalid  dissipation,  his 
father  died,  leaving  a  mere  pittance.  The  youth 
obtained  his  bachelor's  degree,  and  left  the  university. 
During  some  time  the  humble  dwelling  to  which  his 
widowed  mother  had  retired  was  his  home.  He  was 
now  in  his  twenty-first  year ;  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  do  something ;  and  his  education  seemed  to 
have  fitted  him  to  do  nothing  but  to  dress  himself  in 
gaudy  colors,  of  which  he  was  as  fond  as  a  magpie, 
to  take  a  hand  at  cards,  to  sing  Irish  airs,  to  play  the 
flute,  to  angle  in  summer,  and  to  tell  ghost  stories  by 
the  fire  in  winter.  He  tried  five  or  six  professions  in 
turn  without  success.  He  applied  for  ordination; 
but,  as  he  applied  in  scarlet  clothes,  he  was  speedily 
turned  out  of  the  episcopal  palace.     He  then  became 

1  The  glass  on  which  the  name  is  written  has,  as  we  are  informed  by  a 
writer  in  Notes  and  Queries  (2d  S.  ix.  p.  91),  been  inclosed  in  a  frame 
and  deposited  in  the  Manuscript  Room  of  the  College  Library,  where 
it  is  still  to  be  seen. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  255 

tutor  in  an  opulent  family,  but  soon  quitted  his  situa- 
tion in  consequence  of  a  dispute  about  play.  Then 
he  determined  to  emigrate  to  America.  His  relations, 
with  much  satisfaction,  saw  him  set  out  for  Cork  on  a 
good  horse,  with  thirty  pounds  in  his  pocket.  But  in 
six  weeks  he  came  back  on  a  miserable  hack,  without 
a  penny,  and  informed  his  mother  that  the  ship  in 
which  he  had  taken  his  passage,  having  got  a  fair 
wind  while  he  was  at  a  party  of  pleasure,  had  sailed 
without  him.  Then  he  resolved  to  study  the  law. 
A  generous  kinsman  advanced  fifty  pounds.  With 
this  sum  Goldsmith  went  to  Dublin,  was  enticed  into 
a  gaming  house,  and  lost  every  shilling.  He  then 
thought  of  medicine.  A  small  purse  was  made  up  ; 
and  in  his  twenty-fourth  year  he  was  sent  to  Edin- 
burgh. At  Edinburgh  he  passed  eighteen  months  in 
nominal  attendance  on  lectures,  and  picked  up  some 
superficial  information  about  chemistry  and  natural 
history.  Thence  he  went  to  Leyden,  still  pretending 
to  study  physic.  He  left  that  celebrated  university, 
the  third  university  at  which  he  had  resided,  in  his 
twenty-seventh  year,  without  a  degree,  with  the  merest 
smattering  of  medical  knowledge,  and  with  no  prop- 
erty but  his  clothes  and  his  flute.  His  flute,  however, 
proved  a  useful  friend.  He  rambled  on  foot  through 
Flanders-  France,  and  Switzerland,  playing  tunes  which 
everywhere  set  the  peasantry  dancing,  and  which 
often  procured  for  him  a  supper  and  a  bed.  He  wan- 
dered as  far  as  Italy.  His  musical  performances, 
indeed,  were  not  to  the  taste  of  the  Italians  ;  but  he 
contrived  to  live  on  the  alms  which  he  obtained  at 
the  gates  of  convents.  It  should,  however,  be  ob- 
served that  the  stories  which  he  told  about  this  part 
ef  his  life  ought  to  be  received  with  great  caution  ; 


256  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

for  strict  veracity  was  never  one  of  his  virtues  ;  and  a 
man  who  is  ordinarily  inaccurate  in  narration  is  likely 
to  be  more  than  ordinarily  inaccurate  when  he  talks 
about  his  own  travels.  Goldsmith,  indeed,  was  so 
regardless  of  truth  as  to  assert  in  print  that  he  was 
present  at  a  most  interesting  conversation  between 
Voltaire  and  Fontenelle,  and  that  this  conversation 
took  place  at  Paris.  Now  it  is  certain  that  Voltaire 
never  was  within  a  hundred  leagues  of  Paris  during 
the  whole  time  which  Goldsmith  passed  on  the  Con- 
tinent. 

In  1756  the  wanderer  landed  at  Dover,  without  a 
shilling,  without  a  friend,  and  without  a  calling.  He 
had,  indeed,  if  his  own  unsupported  evidence  may  be 
trusted,  obtained  from  the  university  of  Padua  a  doc- 
tor's degree  ;  but  this  dignity  proved  utterly  useless 
to  him.  In  England  his  flute  was  not  in  request : 
there  were  no  convents ;  and  he  was  forced  to  have 
recourse  to  a  series  of  desperate  expedients.  He 
turned  strolling  player ;  but  his  face  and  figure  were 
ill  suited  to  the  boards  even  of  the  humblest  theatre. 
He  pounded  drugs  and  ran  about  London  with  phials 
for  charitable  chemists.  He  joined  a  swarm  of  beg- 
gars, which  made  its  nest  in  Axe  Yard.  He  was 
for  a  time  usher  of  a  school,  and  felt  the  miseries 
and  humiliations  of  this  situation  so  keenly  that  he 
thought  it  a  promotion  to  be  permitted  to  earn  his 
bread  as  a  bookseller's  hack ;  but  he  soon  found  the 
new  yoke  more  galling  than  the  old  one,  and  was  glad 
to  become  an  usher  again.  He  obtained  a  medical 
appointment  in  the  service  of  the  East  India  Com- 
pany ;  but  the  appointment  was  speedily  revoked. 
Why  it  was  revoked  we  are  not  told.  The  subject 
was   one   on   which    he   never   liked   to  talk.     It  is 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  257 

probable  that  he  was  incompetent  to  perform  the 
duties  of  the  place.  Then  he  presented  himself  at 
Surgeons'  Hall  for  examination,  as  mate  to  a  naval 
hospital.  Even  to  so  humble  a  post  he  was  found 
unequal.  By  this  time  the  schoolmaster  whom  he 
had  served  for  a  morsel  of  food  and  the  third  part 
of  a  bed  was  no  more.  Nothing  remained  but  to 
return  to  the  lowest  drudgery  of  literature.  Gold- 
smith took  a  garret  in  a  miserable  court,  to  which 
he  had  to  climb  from  the  brink  of  Fleet  Ditch  by 
a  dizzy  ladder  of  flagstones  called  Breakneck  Steps. 
The  court  and  the  ascent  have  long  disappeared ; 
but  old  Londoners  will  remember  both.1  Here,  at 
thirty,  the  unlucky  adventurer  sat  down  to  toil  like  a 
galley  slave. 

In  the  succeeding  six  years  he  sent  to  the  press 
some  things  which  have  survived  and  many  which 
have  perished.  He  produced  articles  for  reviews, 
magazines,  and  newspapers  ;  children's  books  which, 
bound  in  gilt  paper  and  adorned  with  hideous  wood- 
cuts, appeared  in  the  window  of  the  once  far-famed 
shop  at  the  corner  of  St.  Paul's  Churchyard ;  "  An 
Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe," 
which,  though  of  little  or  no  value,  is  still  reprinted 
among  his  works  ;  a  "  Life  of  Beau  Nash,"  which  is 
not  reprinted,  though  it  well  deserves  to  be  so ; 2  a 

1  A  gentleman,  who  states  that  he  has  known  the  neighborhood  for 
thirty  years,  corrects  this  account,  and  informs  the  present  publisher 
that  the  Breakneck  Steps,  thirty-two  in  number,  divided  into  two 
flights,  are  still  in  existence,  and  that,  according  to  tradition,  Gold- 
smith's house  was  not  on  the  steps,  but  was  the  first  house  at  the 
head  of  the  court,  on  the  left  hand,  going  from  the  Old  Bailey.  See 
Notes  and  Queries  (2d  S.  ix.  280). 

2  Mr.  Black  has  pointed  out  that  this  is  inaccurate  :  the  life  of  Nash 
has  been  twice  reprinted  ;  once  in  Mr.  Prior's  edition  (vol.  iii.  p.  249). 
and  once  in  Mr.  Cunningham's  edition  (vol.  iv.  p.  35). 


258  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

superficial  and  incorrect,  but  very  readable,  "  History 
of  England,"  in  a  series  of  letters  purporting  to  be 
addressed  by  a  nobleman  to  his  son  ;  and  some  very 
lively  and  amusing  "  Sketches  of  London  Society,"1  in 
a  series  of  letters  purporting  to  be  addressed  by  a 
Chinese  traveller  to  his  friends.  All  these  works  were 
anonymous  ;  but  some  of  them  were  well  known  to  be 
Goldsmith's  ;  and  he  gradually  rose  in  the  estimation 
of  the  booksellers  for  whom  he  drudged.  He  was, 
indeed,  a  popular  writer.  For  accurate  research  or 
grave  disquisition  he  was  not  qualified  by  nature  or 
by  education.  He  knew  nothing  accurately  :  his  read- 
ing had  been  desultory  ;  nor  had  he  meditated  deeply 
on  what  he  had  read.  He  had  seen  much  of  the 
world ;  but  he  had  noticed  and  retained  little  more 
of  what  he  had  seen  than  some  grotesque  incidents 
and  characters  which  had  happened  to  strike  his 
fancy.  But,  though  his  mind  was  very  scantily  stored 
with  materials,  he  used  what  materials  he  had  in  such 
a  way  as  to  produce  a  wonderful  effect.  There  have 
been  many  greater  writers  ;  but  perhaps  no  writer  was 
evermore  uniformly  agreeable.  His  style  was  always 
pure  and  easy,  and,  on  proper  occasions,  pointed  and 
energetic.  His  narratives  were  always  amusing,  his 
descriptions  always  picturesque,  his  humor  rich  and 
joyous,  yet  not  without  an  occasional  tinge  of  amiable 
sadness.  About  everything  that  he  wrote,  serious  or 
sportive,  there  was  a  certain  natural  grace  and  deco- 
rum, hardly  to  be  expected  from  a  man  a  great  part 
of  whose  life  had  been  passed  among  thieves  and  beg- 
gars, street-walkers  and  merry  andrews,  in  those 
squalid  dens  which  are  the  reproach  of  great  capitals. 
As  his  name  gradually  became  known,  the  circle  of 
his  acquaintance  widened.    He  was  introduced  to  John 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  259 

son,  who  was  then  considered  as  the  first  of  living  Eng- 
lish writers  ;  to  Reynolds,  the  first  of  English  painters  ; 
and  to  Burke,  who  had  not  yet  entered  parliament, 
but  had  distinguished  himself  greatly  by  his  writings 
and  by  the  eloquence  of  his  conversation.  With  these 
eminent  men  Goldsmith  became  intimate.  In  1763 
he  was  one  of  the  nine  original  members  of  that  cele- 
brated fraternity  which  has  sometimes  been  called 
the  Literary  Club,  but  which  has  always  disclaimed 
that  epithet,  and  still  glories  in  the  simple  name  of 
The  Club. 

By  this  time  Goldsmith  had  quitted  his  miserable 
dwelling  at  the  top  of  Breakneck  Steps,  and  had  taken 
chambers  in  the  more  civilized  region  of  the  Inns  of 
Court.  But  he  was  still  often  reduced  to  pitiable 
shifts.  Towards  the  close  of  1764  his  rent  was  so 
long  in  arrear  that  his  landlady  one  morning  called  in 
the  help  of  a  sheriff's  officer.  The  debtor,  in  great 
perplexity,  despatched  a  messenger  to  Johnson  ;  John- 
son, always  friendly,  though  often  surly,  sent  back  the 
messenger  with  a  guinea,  and  promised  to  follow 
speedily.  He  came,  and  found  that  Goldsmith  had 
changed  the  guinea,  and  was  railing  at  the  landlady 
over  a  bottle  of  Madeira.  Johnson  put  the  cork  into 
the  bottle,  and  entreated  his  friend  to  consider  calmly 
how  money  was  to  be  procured.  Goldsmith  said  that 
he  had  a  novel  ready  for  the  press.  Johnson  glanced 
at  the  manuscript,  saw  that  there  were  good  things  in 
it,  took  it  to  a  bookseller,  sold  it  for  60/.,  and  soon  re- 
turned with  the  money.  The  rent  was  paid;  and  the 
sheriff's  officer  withdrew.  According  to  one  story, 
Goldsmith  gave  his  landlady  a  sharp  reprimand  for 
her  treatment  of  him ;  according  to  another,  he  in- 
sisted on  her  joining  him  in  a  bowl  of  punch.     Both 


26o  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

stories  are  probably  true.  The  novel  which  was  thus 
ushered  into  the  world  was  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield.'1 

But,  before  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield  "  appeared  in 
print,  came  the  great  crisis  of  Goldsmith's  literary  life. 
In  Christmas  week,  1764,  he  published  a  poem,  en- 
titled the  "  Traveller.'1  It  was  the  first  work  to  which 
he  had  put  his  name  ;  and  it  at  once  raised  him  to  the 
rank  of  a  legitimate  English  classic.  The  opinion  of 
the  most  skilful  critics  was,  that  nothing  finer  had 
appeared  in  verse  since  the  fourth  book  of  the  "  Dun- 
ciad.1'  In  one  respect  the  "  Traveller  "  differs  from 
all  Goldsmith's  other  writings.  In  general,  his  de- 
signs were  bad,  and  his  execution  good.  In  the 
"  Traveller,'1  the  execution,  though  deserving  of  much 
praise,  is  far  inferior  to  the  design.  No  philosophical 
poem,  ancient  or  modern,  has  a  plan  so  noble,  and 
at  the  same  time  so  simple.  An  English  wanderer, 
seated  on  a  crag  among  the  Alps,  near  the  point 
where  three  great  countries  meet,  looks  down  on  the 
boundless  prospect,  reviews  his  long  pilgrimage,  re- 
calls the  varieties  of  scenery,  of  climate,  of  government, 
of  religion,  of  national  character,  which  he  has  ob- 
served, and  comes  to  the  conclusion,  just  or  unjust, 
that  our  happiness  depends  little  on  political  institu- 
tions, and  much  on  the  temper  and  regulation  of  our 
own  minds. 

While  the  fourth  edition  of  the  "  Traveller  "  was  on 
the  counters  of  the  booksellers,  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field "  appeared,  and  rapidly  obtained  a  popularity 
which  has  lasted  down  to  our  own  time,  and  which 
is  likely  to  last  as  long  as  our  language.  The  fable  is 
indeed  one  of  the  worst  that  ever  was  constructed. 
It  wants,  not  merely  that  probability  which  ought  to 
be  found  in  a  tale  of  common  English  life,  but  that 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  26 1 

consistency  which  ought  to  be  found  even  in  the 
wildest  fiction  about  witches,  giants,  and  fairies. 
But  the  earlier  chapters  have  all  the  sweetness  of 
pastoral  poetry,  together  with  all  the  vivacity  of 
comedy.  Moses  and  his  spectacles,  the  vicar  and 
his  monogamy,  the  sharper  and  his  cosmogony,  the 
squire  proving  from  Aristotle  that  relatives  are 
related,  Olivia  preparing  herself  for  the  arduous 
task  of  converting  a  rakish  lover  by  studying  the 
controversy  between  Robinson  Crusoe  and  Friday, 
the  great  ladies  with  their  scandal  about  Sir  Tomkyn's 
amours  and  Dr.  Burdock's  verses,  and  Mr.  Burchell 
with  his  -'Fudge,"  have  caused  as  much  harmless 
mirth  as  has  ever  been  caused  by  matter  packed 
into  so  small  a  number  of  pages.  The  latter  part 
of  the  tale  is  unworthy  of  the  beginning.  As  we 
approach  the  catastrophe,  the  absurdities  lie  thicker 
and  thicker ;  and  the  gleams  of  pleasantry  become 
rarer  and  rarer. 

The  success  which  had  attended  Goldsmith  as  a 
novelist  emboldened  him  to  try  his  fortune  as  a 
dramatist.  He  wrote  the  "Good-natured  Man," 
a  piece  which  had  a  worse  fate  than  it  deserved. 
Garrick  refused  to  produce  it  in  Drury  Lane.  It 
was  acted  in  Covent  Garden  in  1768,  but  was  coldly 
received.  The  author,  however,  cleared  by  his 
benefit  nights,  and  by  the  sale  of  the  copyright,  no 
less  than  500/.,  five  times  as  much  as  he  had  made 
by  the  "Traveller"  and  the  "Vicar  of  Wakefield" 
together.  The  plot  of  the  "  Good-natured  Man  "  is, 
like  almost  all  Goldsmith's  plots,  very  ill  constructed. 
But  some  passages  are  exquisitely  ludicrous  ;  much 
more  ludicrous,  indeed,  than  suited  the  taste  of  the 
town  at  that  time.    A  canting,  mawkish  play,  entitled 


262  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

"False  Delicacy,"  had  just  had  an  immense  run. 
Sentimentality  was  all  the  mode.  During  some" 
years,  more  tears  were  shed  at  comedies  than  at 
tragedies  :  and  a  pleasantry  which  moved  the  audi- 
ence to  anything  more  than  a  grave  smile  was  repro- 
bated as  low.  It  is  not  strange,  therefore,  that  the 
very  best  scene  in  the  "Good-natured  Man,"  that 
in  which  Miss  Richland  finds  her  lover  attended  by 
the  bailiff  and  the  bailiff's  follower  in  full  court  dresses, 
should  have  been  mercilessly  hissed,  and  should  have 
been  omitted  after  the  first  night. 

In  1770  appeared  the  ''Deserted  Village."  In  mere 
diction  and  versification  this  celebrated  poem  is  fully 
equal,  perhaps  superior,  to  the  "  Traveller  " ;  and  it  is 
generally  preferred  to  the  "  Traveller "  by  that  large 
class  of  readers  who  think,  with  Bayes  in  the 
"  Rehearsal,11  that  the  only  use  of  a  plan  is  to 
bring  in  fine  things.  More  discerning  judges,  how- 
ever, while  they  admire  the  beauty  of  the  details, 
are  shocked  by  one  unpardonable  fault  which  per- 
vades the  whole.  The  fault  we  mean  is  not  that 
theory  about  wealth  and  luxury  which  has  so  often 
been  censured  by  political  economists.  The  theory 
is  indeed  false :  but  the  poem,  considered  merely  as 
a  poem,  is  not  necessarily  the  worse  on  that  account. 
The  finest  poem  in  the  Latin  language,  indeed  the 
finest  didactic  poem  in  any  language,  was  writ- 
ten in  defence  of  the  silliest  and  meanest  of  all 
systems  of  natural  and  moral  philosophy.  A  poet 
may  easily  be  pardoned  for  reasoning  ill ;  but  he 
cannot  be  pardoned  for  describing  ill,  for  observing 
the  world  in  which  he  lives  so  carelessly  that  his 
portraits  bear  no  resemblance  to  the  originals,  for 
exhibiting  as  copies  from  real    life  monstrous   com- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  263 

binations  of  things  which  never  were  and  never 
could  be  found  together.  What  would  be  thought 
of  a  painter  who  should  mix  August  and  January  in 
one  landscape,  who  should  introduce  a  frozen  river 
into  a  harvest  scene  ?  Would  it  be  a  sufficient 
defence  of  such  a  picture  to  say  that  every  part  w?s 
exquisitely  colored,  that  the  green  hedges,  the  apple- 
trees  loaded  with  fruit,  the  wagons  reeling  under  the 
yellow  sheaves,  and  the  sunburned  reapers  wiping  their 
foreheads,  were  very  fine,  and  that  the  ice  and  the 
boys  sliding  were  also  very  fine  ?  To  such  a  picture 
the  "Deserted  Village11  bears  a  great  resemblance. 
It  is  made  up  of  incongruous  parts.  The  village  in 
its  happy  days  is  a  true  English  village.  The  village 
in  its  decay  is  an  Irish  village.  The  felicity  and  the 
misery  which  Goldsmith  has  brought  close  together 
belong  to  two  different  countries,  and  to  two  differ- 
ent stages  in  the  progress  of  society-  He  had 
assuredly  never  seen  in  his  native  island  such  a 
rural  paradise,  such  a  seat  of  plenty,  content,  and 
tranquillity,  as  his  "Auburn.11  He  had  assuredly 
never  seen  in  England  all  the  inhabitants  of  such 
a  paradise  turned  out  of  their  homes  in  one  day 
and  forced  to  emigrate  in  a  body  to  America. 
The  hamlet  he  had  probably  seen  in  Kent;  the 
ejectment  he  had  probably  seen  in  Munster ;  but, 
by  joining  the  two,  he  has  produced  something 
which  never  was  and  never  will  be  seen  in  any  part 
of  the  world. 

In  1773  Goldsmith  tried  his  chance  at  Covent 
Garden  with  a  second  play,  "  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer.11 The  manager  was  not  without  great  difficulty 
induced  to  bring  this  piece  out.  The  sentimental 
comedy   still    reigned ;    and    Goldsmith's    comedies 


264  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

were  not  sentimental.  The  "Good-natured  Man" 
had  been  too  funny  to  succeed  ;  yet  the  mirth  of 
the  "  Good-natured  Man  "  was  sober  when  compared 
with  the  rich  drollery  of  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,1' 
which  is,  in  truth,  an  incomparable  farce  in  five 
acts.  On  this  occasion,  however,  genius  triumphed. 
Pit,  boxes,  and  galleries,  were  in  a  constant  roar  of 
laughter.  If  any  bigoted  admirer  of  Kelly  and  Cumber- 
land ventured  to  hiss  or  groan,  he  was  speedily  silenced 
by  the  general  cry  of  "  turn  him  out,11  or  "  throw  him 
over.11  Two  generations  have  since  confirmed  the 
verdict  which  was  pronounced  on  that  night. 

While  Goldsmith  was  writing  the  "  Deserted  Village  " 
and  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,11  he  was  employed  on 
works  of  a  very  different  kind,  works  from  which  he 
derived  little  reputation  but  much  profit.  He  com- 
piled for  the  use  of  schools  a  "  History  of  Rome,1' 
by  which  he  made  300/.,  a  "  History  of  England,11  by 
which  he  made  600/.,  a  "  History  of  Greece,11  for 
which  he  received  250/.,  a  "  Natural  History,11  for  which 
the  booksellers  covenanted  to  pay  him  800  guineas. 
These  works  he  produced  without  any  elaborate 
research,  by  merely  selecting,  abridging,  and  trans- 
lating into  his  own  clear,  pure,  and  flowing  language 
what  he  found  in  books  well  known  to  the  world,  but 
too  bulky  or  too  dry  for  boys  and  girls.  He  committed 
some  strange  blunders ;  for  he  knew  nothing  with 
accuracy.  Thus  in  his  "History  of  England'1  he 
tells  us  that  Naseby  is  in  Yorkshire ;  nor  did  he  cor- 
rect this  mistake  when  the  book  was  reprinted.  He 
was  very  nearly  hoaxed  into  putting  into  the  "  History 
of  Greece  "  an  account  of  a  battle  between  Alexander 
the  Great  and  Montezuma.  In  his  "  Animated  Nature  " 
he  relates  with  faith  and  with  perfect  gravity,  all  the 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  26$ 

most  absurd  lies  which  he  could  find  in  books  of 
travels  about  gigantic  Patagonians,  monkeys  that 
preach  sermons,  nightingales  that  repeat  long  con- 
versations. "  If  he  can  tell  a  horse  from  a  cow," 
said  Johnson,  "  that  is  the  extent  of  his  knowledge 
of  zoology. "  How  little  Goldsmith  was  qualified  to 
write  about  the  physical  sciences  is  sufficiently  proved 
by  two  anecdotes.  He  on  one  occasion  denied  that  the 
sun  is  longer  in  the  northern  than  in  the  southern 
signs.  It  was  vain  to  cite  the  authority  of  Maupertius. 
"  Maupertius  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  understand  those  matters 
better  than  Maupertius.'1  On  another  occasion  he,  in 
defiance  of  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses,  maintained 
obstinately,  and  even  angrily,  that  he  chewed  his  din- 
ner by  moving  his  upper  jaw. 

Yet,  ignorant  as  Goldsmith  was,  few  writers  have 
done  more  to  make  the  first  steps  in  the  laborious 
road  to  knowledge  easy  and  pleasant.  His  compila- 
tions are  widely  distinguished  from  the  compilations 
of  ordinary  book-makers.  He  was  a  great,  perhaps 
an  unequalled,  master  of  the  arts  of  selection  and 
condensation.  In  these  respects  his  histories  of 
Rome  and  of  England,  and  still  more  his  own  abridg- 
ments of  these  histories,  well  deserve  to  be  studied. 
In  general,  nothing  is  less  attractive  than  an  epitome  ; 
but  the  epitomes  of  Goldsmith,  even  when  most  con- 
cise, are  always  amusing;  and  to  read  them  is  con- 
sidered by  intelligent  children,  not  as  a  task,  but  as  a 
pleasure. 

Goldsmith  might  now  be  considered  as  a  prosperous 
man.  He  had  the  means  of  living  in  comfort,  and 
even  in  what  to  one  who  had  so  often  slept  in  barns 
and  on  bulks  must  have  been  luxury.  His  fame  was 
great  and  was  constantly  rising.     He  lived  in  what 


266  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

was  intellectually  far  the  best  society  of  the  kingdom, 
in  a  society  in  which  no  talent  or  accomplishment 
was  wanting,  and  in  which  the  art  of  conversation 
was  cultivated  with  splendid  success.  There  prob- 
ably were  never  four  talkers  more  admirable  in  four 
different  ways  than  Johnson,  Burke,  Beauclerk,  and 
Garrick,  and  Goldsmith  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
all  the  four.  He  aspired  to  share  in  their  colloquial 
renown ;  but  never  was  ambition  more  unfortunate. 
It  may  seem  strange  that  a  man  who  wrote  with  so 
much  perspicuity,  vivacity,  and  grace,  should  have 
been,  whenever  he  took  a  part  in  conversation,  an 
empty,  noisy,  blundering  rattle.  But  on  this  point 
the  evidence  is  overwhelming.  So  extraordinary  was 
the  contrast  between  Goldsmith's  published  works 
and  the  silly  things  which  he  said,  that  Horace  Wal- 
pole  described  him  as  an  inspired  idiot.  "Noll," 
said  Garrick.  "  wrote  like  an  angel,  and  talked  like 
poor  Pol.''  Chamier  declared  that  it  was  a  hard  exer- 
cise of  faith  to  believe  that  so  foolish  a  chatterer  could 
have  really  written  the  "  Traveller."  Even  Bos  well 
could  say,  with  contemptuous  compassion,  that  he 
liked  very  well  to  hear  honest  Goldsmith  run  on. 
"  Yes,  sir,'"'  said  Johnson  ;  "  but  he  should  not  like  to 
hear  himself.1'  Minds  differ  as  rivers  differ.  There 
are  transparent  and  sparkling  rivers  from  which  it  is 
delightful  to  drink  as  they  flow ;  to  such  rivers  the 
minds  of  such  men  as  Burke  and  Johnson  may  be 
compared.  But  there  are  rivers  of  which  the  water 
when  first  drawn  is  turbid  and  noisome,  but  becomes 
pellucid  as  crystal,  and  delicious  to  the  taste,  if  it  be 
suffered  to  stand  till  it  has  deposited  a  sediment ; 
and  such  a  river  is  a  type  of  the  mind  of  Goldsmith. 
His  first  thoughts   on   every   subject   were  confused 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  267 

even  to  absurdity ;  but  they  required  only  a  little 
time  to  work  themselves  clear.  When  he  wrote  they 
had  that  time ;  and  therefore  his  readers  pronounced 
him  a  man  of  genius  :  but  when  he  talked  he  talked 
nonsense,  and  made  himself  the  laughing-stock  of  his 
hearers.  He  was  painfully  sensible  of  his  inferiority  in 
conversation  ;  he  felt  every  failure  keenly  ;  yet  he  had 
not  sufficient  judgment  and  self-command  to  hold  his 
tongue.  His  animal  spirits  and  vanity  were  always 
impelling  him  to  try  to  do  the  one  thing  which  he 
could  not  do.  After  every  attempt  he  felt  that  he 
had  exposed  himself,  and  writhed  with  shame  and 
vexation  ;  yet  the  next  moment  he  began  again. 

His  associates  seem  to  have  regarded  him  with 
kindness,  which,  in  spite  of  their  admiration  of  his 
writings,  was  not  unmixed  with  contempt.  In  truth, 
there  was  in  his  character  much  to  love,  but  very  little 
to  respect.  His  heart  was  soft  even  to  weakness  ;  he 
was  so  generous  that  he  quite  forgot  to  be  just ;  he 
forgave  injuries  so  readily  that  he  might  be  said  to 
invite  them  ;  and  was  so  liberal  to  beggars  that  he 
had  nothing  left  for  his  tailor  and  his  butcher.  He 
was  vain,  sensual,  frivolous,  profuse,  improvident. 
One  vice  of  a  darker  shade  was  imputed  to  him, 
envy.  But  there  is  not  the  least  reason  to  believe 
that  this  bad  passion,  though  it  sometimes  made  him 
wince  and  utter  fretful  exclamations,  ever  impelled 
him  to  injure  by  wicked  arts  the  reputation  of  any  of 
his  rivals.  The  truth  probably  is,  that  he  was  not 
more  envious,  but  merely  less  prudent,  than  his  neigh- 
bors. His  heart  was  on  his  lips.  All  those  small 
jealousies,  which  are  but  too  common  among  men  of 
letters,  but  which  a  man  of  letters  who  is  also  a  man 
of  the  world    does    his    best    to    conceal,  Goldsmith 


268  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

avowed  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child.  When  he  was 
envious,  instead  of  affecting  indifference,  instead  of 
damning  with  faint  praise,  instead  of  doing  injuries 
slyly  and  in  the  dark,  he  told  everybody  that  he  was 
envious.  "  Do  not,  pray,  do  not  talk  of  Johnson  in 
such  terms,"  he  said  to  Boswell ;  "  you  harrow  up 
my  very  soul."  George  Steevens  and  Cumberland 
were  men  far  too  cunning  to  say  such  a  thing.  They 
would  have  echoed  the  praises  of  the  man  whom  they 
envied,  and  then  have  sent  to  the  newspapers  anony- 
mous libels  upon  him.  Both  what  was  good  and 
what  was  bad  in  Goldsmith's  character  was  to  his 
associates  a  perfect  security  that  he  would  never  com- 
mit such  villainy.  He  was  neither  ill-natured  enough, 
nor  long-headed  enough,  to  be  guilty  of  any  malicious 
act  which  required  contrivance  and  disguise. 

Goldsmith  has  sometimes  been  represented  as  a 
man  of  genius,  cruelly  treated  by  the  world,  and 
doomed  to  struggle  with  difficulties  which  at  last 
broke  his  heart.  But  no  representation  can  be  more 
remote  from  the  truth.  He  did,  indeed,  go  through 
much  sharp  misery  before  he  had  done  anything  con- 
siderable in  literature.  But,  after  his  name  had  ap- 
peared on  the  title-page  of  the  "  Traveller,"  he  had 
none  but  himself  to  blame  for  his  distresses.  His 
average  income,  during  the  last  seven  years  of  his 
life,  certainly  exceeded  400/.  a  year ;  and  400/.  a  year 
ranked,  among  the  incomes  of  that  day,  at  least  as 
high  as  800/.  a  year  would  rank  at  present.  A  single 
man  living  in  the  Temple  with  400/.  a  year  might  then 
be  called  opulent.  Not  one  in  ten  of  the  young  gentle- 
men of  good  families  who  were  studying  the  law  there 
had  so  much.  But  all  the  wealth  which  Lord  Clive 
had  brought  from  Bengal,  and  Sir  Lawrence  Dundas 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  269 

from  Germany,  joined  together,  would  not  have  suf- 
ficed for  Goldsmith.  He  spent  twice  as  much  as  he 
had.  He  wore  fine  clothes,  gave  dinners  of  several 
courses,  paid  court  to  venal  beauties.  He  had  also, 
it  should  be  remembered,  to  the  honor  of  his  heart, 
though  not  of  his  head,  a  guinea,  or  five,  or  ten, 
according  to  the  state  of  his  purse,  ready  for  any 
tale  of  distress,  true  or  false.  But  it  was  not  in  dress 
or  feasting,  in  promiscuous  amours  or  promiscuous 
charities  that  his  chief  expense  lay.  He  had  been 
from  boyhood  a  gambler,  and  at  once  the  most  san- 
guine and  the  most  unskilful  of  gamblers.  For  a 
time  he  put  off  the  day  of  inevitable  ruin  by  tempo- 
rary expedients.  He  obtained  advances  from  book- 
sellers, by  promising  to  execute  works  which  he  never 
began.  But  at  length  this  source  of  supply  failed. 
He  owed  more  than  2000/.  and  he  saw  no  hope  of 
extrication  from  his  embarrassments.  His  spirits  and 
health  gave  way.  He  was  attacked  by  a  nervous  fever, 
which  he  thought  himself  competent  to  treat.  It  would 
have  been  happy  for  him  if  his  medical  skill  had  been 
appreciated  as  justly  by  himself  as  by  others.  Not- 
withstanding the  degree  which  he  pretended  to  have 
received  at  Padua,  he  could  procure  no  patients.  "  I 
do  not  practise,1'  he  once  said ;  "  I  make  it  a  rule  to 
prescribe  only  for  my  friends."  "  Pray,  dear  Doctor,'' 
said  Beauclerk,  "alter  your  rule;  and  prescribe  only 
for  your  enemies."  Goldsmith  now,  in  spite  of  this 
excellent  advice,  prescribed  for  himself.  The  remedy 
aggravated  the  malady.  The  sick  man  was  induced 
to  call  in  real  physicians  ;  and  they  at  one  time  imag- 
ined that  they  had  cured  the  disease.  Still  his  weak- 
ness and  restlessness  continued.  He  could  get  no 
sleep.      He  could  take  no  food.     "You  are  worse,'' 


270  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

said  one  of  his  medical  attendants,  "  than  you  should 
be  from  the  degree  of  fever  which  you  have.  Is  your 
mind  at  ease  ?  "  "  No,  it  is  not,1'  were  the  last  recorded 
words  of  Oliver  Goldsmith.  He  died  on  the  third  of 
April,  1774,  in  his  forty-sixth  year.  He  was  laid  in 
the  churchyard  of  the  Temple  ;  but  the  spot  was  not 
marked  by  any  inscription,  and  is  now  forgotten. 
The  coffin  was  followed  by  Burke  and  Reynolds. 
Both  these  great  men  were  sincere  mourners.  Burke, 
when  he  heard  of  Goldsmith's  death,  had  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears.  Reynolds  had  been  so  much  moved 
by  the  news  that  he  had  flung  aside  his  brush  and 
palette  for  the  day. 

A  short  time  after  Goldsmith's  death,  a  little  poem 
appeared,  which  will,  as  long  as  our  language  lasts, 
associate  the  names  of  his  two  illustrious  friends  with 
his  own.  It  has  already  been  mentioned  that  he  some- 
times felt  keenly  the  sarcasm  which  his  wild  blunder- 
ing talk  brought  upon  him.  He  was,  not  long  before 
his  last  illness,  provoked  into  retaliating.  He  wisely 
betook  himself  to  his  pen  ;  and  at  that  weapon  he 
proved  himself  a  match  for  all  his  assailants  together. 
Within  a  small  compass  he  drew  with  a  singularly  easy 
and  vigorous  pencil  the  characters  of  nine  or  ten  of 
his  intimate  associates.  Though  this  little  work  did 
not  receive  his  last  touches,  it  must  always  be  regarded 
as  a  masterpiece.  It  is  impossible,  however,  not  to 
wish  that  four  or  five  likenesses  wrhich  have  no  inter- 
est for  posterity  were  wanting  to  that  noble  gallery, 
and  that  their  places  were  supplied  by  sketches  of 
Johnson  and  Gibbon,  as  happy  and  vivid  as  the 
sketches  of  Burke  and  Garrick. 

Some  of  Goldsmith's  friends  and  admirers  honored 
him  with  a  cenotaph  in  Westminster  Abbey.     Nolle- 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH.  27 1 

kens  was  the  sculptor  ;  and  Johnson  wrote  the  inscrip- 
tion. It  is  much  to  be  lamented  that  Johnson  did  not 
leave  to  posterity  a  more  durable  and  a  more  valuable 
memorial  of  his  friend.  A  life  of  Goldsmith  would 
have  been  an  inestimable  addition  to  the  Lives  of  the 
Poets.  No  man  appreciated  Goldsmith's  writings  more 
justly  than  Johnson:  no  man  was  better  acquainted 
with  Goldsmith's  character  and  habits ;  and  no  man 
was  more  competent  to  delineate  with  truth  and  spirit 
the  peculiarities  of  a  mind  in  which  great  powers  were 
found  in  company  with  great  weaknesses.  But  the 
list  of  poets  to  whose  works  Johnson  was  requested 
by  the  booksellers  to  furnish  prefaces  ended  with 
Lyttleton,  who  died  in  1773.  The  line  seems  to  have 
been  drawn  expressly  for  the  purpose  of  excluding  the 
person  whose  portrait  would  have  most  fitly  closed  the 
series.  Goldsmith,  however,  has  been  fortunate  in 
his  biographers.  Within  a  few  years  his  life  has  been 
written  by  Mr.  Prior,  by  Mr.  Washington  Irving,  and 
by  Mr.  Forster.  The  diligence  of  Mr.  Prior  deserves 
great  praise  ;  the  style  of  Mr.  Washington  Irving  is 
always  pleasing ;  but  the  highest  place  must,  in  jus- 
tice, be  assigned  to  the  eminently  interesting  work  of 
Mr.  Forster. 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON. 

i 709-1 784. 

The  essay  on  Samuel  Johnson  was  written  for  the 
Encyclopedia  Brifannica,  December,  1856,  about 
twenty-five  years  after  Macaulay  had  treated  the  same 
subject  in  the  Edinburgh  Review.  Both  essays  are 
on  essentially  the  same  lines  of  thought,  though  the 
latter  article,  written  in  the  calmer  spirit  of  the  author's 
mature  years,  is  more  generous  in  tone  and  more  chaste 
in  diction.  Macaulay  could  not  separate  Johnson  from 
Boswell,  and  both  were  victims  of  his  determination  to 
prove  the  famous  paradox  that  the  excellence  of  Bos- 
welPs  Life  was  due  to  the  badness  of  the  author.  In 
the  biographical  part  of  the  essay  a  desire  to  be  fair, 
possibly  even  generous,  is  evident ;  but  the  critical 
estimate  is  entirely  inadequate.  Macaulay  could  not 
pierce  through  the  external  bark  of  the  great  lexicog- 
rapher. He  sees  chiefly  the  coarseness,  ill-temper, 
and  gluttony,  and  is  blind  to  the  intensely  religious 
spirit  which  alone  furnishes  the  point  of  view  from 
which  Johnson  can  be  properly  judged.  The  appre- 
ciation is  confined  to  the  surface,  and  is  therefore 
somewhat  unjust. 

Samuel  Johnson,  one  of  the  most  eminent  English 
writers  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was  the  son  of 
Michael  Johnson,  who  was,  at  the  beginning  of  that 
century,  a  magistrate  of  Lichfield,  and  a  bookseller  of 
great  note  in  the  midland  counties.  Michael's  abili- 
ties and  attainments  seem  to  have  been  considerable. 
He  was  so  well  acquainted  with  the  contents  of  the 

****  >    H  <eY  '  •  .  272 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  273 

volumes  which  he  exposed  to  sale,  that  the  country 
rectors  of  Staffordshire  and  Worcestershire  thought 
him  an  oracle  on  points  of  learning.  Between  him 
and  the  clergy,  indeed,  there  was  a  strong  religious 
and  political  sympathy.  He  was  a  zealous  church- 
man, and,  though  he  had  qualified  himself  for  munici- 
pal office  by  taking  the  oaths  to  the  sovereigns  in 
possession,  was  to  the  last  a  Jacobite  in  heart.  At 
his  house,  a  house  which  is  still  pointed  out  to  every 
traveller  who  visits  Lichfield,  Samuel  was  born  on  the 
1 8th  of  September,  1709.  In  the  child,  the  physical, 
intellectual,  and  moral  peculiarities  which  afterwards 
distinguished  the  man  were  plainly  discernible ;  great 
muscular  strength  accompanied  by  much  awkwardness 
and  many  infirmities ;  great  quickness  of  parts,  with 
a  morbid  propensity  to  sloth  and  procrastination  ;  a 
kind  and  generous  heart,  with  a  gloomy  and  irritable 
temper.  He  had  inherited  from  his  ancestors  a  scrof- 
ulous taint,  which  it  was  beyond  the  power  of  medi- 
cine to  remove.  His  parents  were  weak  enough  to 
believe  that  the  royal  touch  was  a  specific  for  this 
malady.  In  his  third  year  he  was  taken  up  to  Lon- 
don, inspected  by  the  court  surgeon,  prayed  over  by 
the  court  chaplains,  and  stroked  and  presented  with 
a  piece  of  gold  by  Queen  Anne.  One  of  his  earliest 
recollections  was  that  of  a  stately  lady  in  a  diamond 
stomacher  and  a  long  black  hood.  Her  hand  was 
applied  in  vain.  The  boy^  features,  which  were 
originally  noble  and  not  irregular,  were  distorted  by 
his  malady.  His  cheeks  were  deeply  scarred.  He 
lost  for  a  time  the  sight  of  one  eye ;  and  he  saw  but 
very  imperfectly  with  the  other.  But  the  force  of  his 
mind  overcame  every  impediment.  Indolent  as  he 
was,   he   acquired    knowledge   with    such    ease    and 


274  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

rapidity  that  at  every  school  to  which  he  was  sent 
he  was  soon  the  best  scholar.  From  sixteen  to  eigh- 
teen he  resided  at  home,  and  was  left  to  his  own 
devices.  He  learned  much  at  this  time,  though  his 
studies  were  without  guidance  and  without  plan.  He 
ransacked  his  father's  shelves,  dipped  into  a  multitude 
of  books,  read  what  was  interesting,  and  passed  over 
what  was  dull.  An  ordinary  lad  would  have  acquired 
little  or  no  useful  knowledge  in  such  a  way  :  but  much 
that  was  dull  to  ordinary  lads  was  interesting  to 
Samuel.  He  read  little  Greek;  for  his  proficiency  in 
that  language  was  not  such  that  he  could  take  much 
pleasure  in  the  masters  of  Attic  poetry  and  eloquence. 
But  he  had  left  school  a  good  Latinist :  and  he  soon 
acquired,  in  the  large  and  miscellaneous  library  of 
which  he  now  had  the  command,  an  extensive  knowl- 
edge of  Latin  literature.  That  Augustan  delicacy  of 
taste  which  is  the  boast  of  the  great  public  schools 
of  England  he  never  possessed.  But  he  was  early 
familiar  with  some  classical  writers  who  were  quite 
unknown  to  the  best  scholars  in  the  sixth  form  at 
Eton.  He  was  peculiarly  attracted  by  the  works  of 
the  great  restorers  of  learning.  Once,  while  search- 
ing for  some  apples,  he  found  a  huge  folio  volume  of 
Petrarch's  works.  The  name  excited  his  curiosity ; 
and  he  eagerly  devoured  hundreds  of  pages.  Indeed, 
the  diction  and  versification  of  his  own  Latin  compo- 
sitions show  that  he  had  paid  at  least  as  much  atten- 
tion to  modern  copies  from  the  antique  as  to  the 
original  models. 

While  he  was  thus  irregularly  educating  himself, 
his  family  was  sinking  into  hopeless  poverty.  Old 
Michael  Johnson  was  much  better  qualified  to  pore 
upon  books,  and  to  talk  about  them,  than  to  trade  in 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  275 

them.  His  business  declined ;  his  debts  increased ; 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  the  daily  expenses  of  his 
household  were  defrayed.  It  was  out  of  his  power  to 
support  his  son  at  either  university :  but  a  wealthy 
neighbor  offered  assistance ;  and  in  reliance  on  prom- 
ises which  proved  to  be  of  very  little  value,  Samuel 
was  entered  at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford.  When 
the  young  scholar  presented  himself  to  the  rulers  of 
that  society,  they  were  amazed  not  more  by  his 
ungainly  figure  and  eccentric  manners  than  by  the 
quantity  of  extensive  and  curious  information  which 
he  had  picked  up  during  many  months  of  desultory 
but  not  unprofitable  study.  On  the  first  day  of  his 
residence  he  surprised  his  teachers  by  quoting  Ma- 
crobius ;  and  one  of  the  most  learned  among  them 
declared  that  he  had  never  known  a  freshman  of  equal 
attainments. 

At  Oxford,  Johnson  resided  during  about  three 
years.  He  was  poor,  even  to  raggedness  ;  and  his 
appearance  excited  a  mirth  and  a  pity  which  were 
equally  intolerable  to  his  haughty  spirit.  He  was 
driven  from  the  quadrangle  of  Christ  Church  by  the 
sneering  looks  which  the  members  of  that  aristocrati- 
cal  society  cast  at  the  holes  in  his  shoes.  Some 
charitable  person  placed  a  new  pair  at  his  door  ;  but 
he  spurned  them  away  in  a  fury.  Distress  made  him, 
not  servile,  but  reckless  and  ungovernable.  No 
opulent  gentleman  commoner,  panting  for  one-and- 
twenty,  could  have  treated  the  academical  authorities 
with  more  gross  disrespect.  The  needy  scholar  was 
generally  to  be  seen  under  the  gate  of  Pembroke,  a 
gate  now  adorned  with  his  effigy,  haranguing  a  circle 
of  lads,  over  whom,  in  spite  of  his  tattered  gown  and 
dirty  linen,  his  wit  and  audacity  gave  him  an  undis- 


276  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

puted  ascendency.  In  every  mutiny  against  the  dis- 
cipline of  the  college  he  was  the  ringleader.  Much 
was  pardoned,  however,  to  a  youth  so  highly  distin- 
guished by  abilities  and  acquirements.  He  had  early 
made  himself  known  by  turning  Pope^  Messiah  into 
Latin  verse.  The  style  and  rhythm,  indeed,  were  not 
exactly  Virgilian  ;  but  the  translation  found  many 
admirers,  and  was  read  with  pleasure  by  Pope  him- 
self. 

The  time  drew  near  at  which  Johnson  would,  in 
the  ordinary  course  of  things,  have  become  a  Bachelor 
of  Arts  ;  but  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  resources. 
Those  promises  of  support  on  which  he  had  relied 
had  not  been  kept.  His  family  could  do  nothing  for 
him.  His  debts  to  Oxford  tradesmen  were  small 
indeed,  yet  larger  than  he  could  pay.  In  the  autumn 
of  1 73 1,  he  was  under  the  necessity  of  quitting  the 
university  without  a  degree.  In  the  following  winter 
his  father  died.  The  old  man  left  but  a  pittance  ; 
and  of  that  pittance  almost  the  whole  was  appropri- 
ated to  the  support  of  his  widow.  The  property  to 
which  Samuel  succeeded  amounted  to  no  more  than 
twenty  pounds. 

His  life,  during  the  thirty  years  which  followed, 
was  one  hard  struggle  with  poverty.  The  misery  of 
that  struggle  needed  no  aggravation,  but  was  aggra- 
vated by  the  sufferings  of  an  unsound  body  and  an 
unsound  mind.  Before  the  young  man  left  the 
university,  his  hereditary  malady  had  broken  forth  in 
a  singularly  cruel  form.  He  had  become  an  incurable 
hypochondriac.  He  said  long  after  that  he  had  been 
mad  all  his  life,  or  at  least  not  perfectly  sane ;  and, 
in  truth,  eccentricities  less  strange  than  his  have 
often   been  thought  grounds  sufficient  for  absolving 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  2/"/ 

felons,  and  for  setting  aside  wills.  His  grimaces,  his 
gestures,  his  mutterings,  sometimes  diverted  and 
sometimes  terrified  people  who  did  not  know  him. 
At  a  dinner  table  he  would,  in  a  fit  of  absence, 
stoop  down  and  twitch  off"  a  lady's  shoe.  He  would 
amaze  a  drawing-room  by  suddenly  ejaculating  a  clause 
of  the  Lord's  Prayer.  He  would  conceive  an  unintel- 
ligible aversion  to  a  particular  alley,  and  perform  a 
great  circuit  rather  than  see  the  hateful  place.  He 
would  set  his  heart  on  touching  every  post  in  the 
streets  through  which  he  walked.  If  by  any  chance 
he  missed  a  post,  he  would  go  back  a  hundred  yards 
and  repair  the  omission.  Under  the  influence  of  his 
disease,  his  senses  became  morbidly  torpid,  and  his 
imagination  morbidly  active.  At  one  time  he  would 
stand  poring  on  the  town  clock  without  being  able  to 
tell  the  hour.  At  another,  he  would  distinctly  hear 
his  mother,  who  was  many  miles  off,  calling  him  by 
his  name.  But  this  was  not  the  worst.  A  deep 
melancholy  took  possession  of  him  and  gave  a  dark 
tinge  to  all  his  views  of  human  nature  and  of  human 
destiny.  Such  wretchedness  as  he  endured  has  driven 
many  men  to  shoot  themselves  or  drown  themselves. 
But  he  was  under  no  temptation  to  commit  suicide. 
He  was  sick  of  life  ;  but  he  was  afraid  of  death  ;  and 
he  shuddered  at  every  sight  or  sound  which  reminded 
him  of  the  inevitable  hour.  In  religion  he  found  but 
little  comfort  during  his  long  and  frequent  fits  of  de- 
jection ;  for  his  religion  partook  of  his  own  character. 
The  light  from  heaven  shone  on  him  indeed,  but  not 
in  a  direct  line,  or  with  its  own  pure  splendor.  The 
rays  had  to  struggle  through  a  disturbing  medium  : 
they  reached  him  refracted,  dulled  and  discolored  by 
the  thick  gloom  which  had  settled  on  his  soul ;  and, 


278  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

though  they  might  be  sufficiently  clear  to  guide  him, 
were  too  dim  to  cheer  him. 

With  such  infirmities  of  body  and  of  mind,  this 
celebrated  man  was  left,  at  two-and-twenty,  to  fight 
his  way  through  the  world.  He  remained  during 
about  five  years  in  the  midland  counties.  At  Lich- 
field, his  birth-place  and  his  early  home,  he  had  inher- 
ited some  friends  and  acquired  others.  He  was  kindly 
noticed  by  Henry  Hervey,  a  gay  officer  of  noble  fam- 
ily, who  happened  to  be  quartered  there.  Gilbert 
Walmesley,  registrar  of  the  ecclesiastical  court  of  the 
diocese,  a  man  of  distinguished  parts,  learning,  and 
knowledge  of  the  world,  did  himself  honor  by  patron- 
izing the  young  adventurer,  whose  repulsive  person, 
unpolished  manners  and  squalid  garb  moved  many  of 
the  petty  aristocracy  of  the  neighborhood  to  laughter 
or  to  disgust.  At  Lichfield,  however,  Johnson  could 
find  no  way  of  earning  a  livelihood.  He  became 
usher  of  a  grammar  school  in  Leicestershire :  he 
resided  as  a  humble  companion  in  the  house  of  a 
country  gentleman;  but  a  life  of  dependence  was 
insupportable  to  his  haughty  spirit.  He  repaired  to 
Birmingham,  and  there  earned  a  few  guineas  by  liter- 
ary drudgery.  In  that  town  he  printed  a  translation, 
little  noticed  at  the  time,  and  long  forgotten,  of  a 
Latin  book  about  Abyssinia.  He  then  put  forth  pro- 
posals for  publishing  by  subscription  the  poems  of 
Politian,  with  notes  containing  a  history  of  modern 
Latin  verse  :  but  subscriptions  did  not  come  in ;  and 
the  volume  never  appeared. 

While  leading  this  vagrant  and  miserable  life,  John- 
son fell  in  love.  The  object  of  his  passion  was  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Porter,  a  widow  who  had  children  as  old  as 
himself.     To  ordinary  spectators,  the  lady  appeared 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  279 

to  be  a  short,  fat,  coarse  woman,  painted  half  an  inch 
thick,  dressed  in  gaudy  colors,  and  fond  of  exhibiting 
provincial  airs  and  graces  which  were  not  exactly 
those  of  the  Oueensberrys  and  Lepels.  To  John- 
son, however,  whose  passions  were  strong,  whose 
eyesight  was  too  weak  to  distinguish  ceruse  from 
natural  bloom,  and  who  had  seldom  or  never  been 
in  the  same  room  with  a  woman  of  real  fashion,  his 
Titty,  as  he  called  her,  was  the  most  beautiful,  grace- 
ful and  accomplished  of  her  sex.  That  his  admira- 
tion was  unfeigned  cannot  be  doubted ;  for  she  was 
as  poor  as  himself.  She  accepted,  with  a  readiness 
which  did  her  little  honor,  the  addresses  of  a  suitor 
who  might  have  been  her  son.  The  marriage,  how- 
ever, in  spite  of  occasional  wranglings,  proved  hap- 
pier than  might  have  been  expected.  The  lover 
continued  to  be  under  the  illusions  of  the  wedding- 
day  till  the  lady  died  in  her  sixty-fourth  year.  On 
her  monument  he  placed  an  inscription  extolling  the 
charms  of  her  person  and  of  her  manners  ;  and  when, 
long  after  her  decease,  he  had  occasion  to  mention 
her,  he  exclaimed,  with  a  tenderness  half  ludicrous, 
half  pathetic,  "  Pretty  creature  ! " 

His  marriage  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  exert 
himself  more  strenuously  than  he  had  hitherto  done. 
He  took  a  house  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  native 
town,  and  advertised  for  pupils.  But  eighteen  months 
passed  away ;  only  three  pupils  came  to  his  academy. 
Indeed,  his  appearance  was  strange,  and  his  temper 
so  violent,  that  his  schoolroom  must  have  resembled 
an  ogre's  den.  Nor  was  the  tawdry  painted  grand- 
mother whom  he  called  his  Titty  well  qualified  to 
make  provisions  for  the  comfort  of  young  gentlemen. 
David  Garrick,  who  was  one  of  the  pupils,  used,  many 


280  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

years  later,  to  throw  the  best  company  of  London  into 
convulsions  of  laughter  by  mimicking  the  endearments 
of  this  extraordinary  pair. 

At  length  Johnson,  in  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  his 
age,  determined  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  capital  as 
a  literary  adventurer.  He  set  out  with  a  few  guineas, 
three  acts  of  the  tragedy  of  Irene  in  manuscript,  and 
two  or  three  letters  of  introduction  from  his  friend 
Walmesley. 

Never,  since  literature  became  a  calling  in  England, 
had  it  been  a  less  gainful  calling  than  at  the  time 
when  Johnson  took  up  his  residence  in  London.  In 
the  preceding  generation  a  writer  of  eminent  merit 
was  sure  to  be  munificently  rewarded  by  the  govern- 
ment. The  least  that  he  could  expect  was  a  pension 
or  a  sinecure  place  ;  and,  if  he  showed  any  aptitude 
for  politics,  he  might  hope  to  be  a  member  of  parlia- 
ment, a  lord  of  the  treasury,  an  ambassador,  a  secre- 
tary of  state.  It  would  be  easy,  on  the  other  hand, 
to  name  several  writers  of  the  nineteenth  century  of 
whom  the  least  successful  has  received  forty  thousand 
pounds  from  the  booksellers.  But  Johnson  entered 
on  his  vocation  in  the  most  dreary  part  of  the  dreary 
interval  which  separated  two  ages  of  prosperity. 
Literature  had  ceased  to  flourish  under  the  patronage 
of  the  great,  and  had  not  begun  to  flourish  under  the 
patronage  of  the  public.  One  man  of  letters,  indeed, 
Pope,  had  acquired  by  his  pen  what  was  then  considered 
as  a  handsome  fortune,  and  lived  on  a  footing  of  equal- 
ity with  nobles  and  ministers  of  state.  But  this  was  a 
solitary  exception.  Even  an  author  whose  reputation 
was  established,  and  whose  works  were  popular,  such 
an  author  as  Thomson,  whose  Seasons  were  in  every 
library,  such  an  author  as  Fielding,  whose  Pasquin 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  28 1 

had  had  a  greater  run  than  any  drama  since  the  Beg- 
gar's Opera,  was  sometimes  glad  to  obtain,  by  pawn- 
ing his  best  coat,  the  means  of  dining  on  tripe  at 
a  cook-shop  under  ground,  where  he  could  wipe  his 
hands,  after  his  greasy  meal,  on  the  back  of  a  New- 
foundland dog.  It  is  easy,  therefore,  to  imagine 
what  humiliations  and  privations  must  have  awaited 
the  novice  who  had  still  to  earn  a  name.  One  of  the 
publishers  to  whom  Johnson  applied  for  employment 
measured  with  scornful  eye  that  athletic  though  un- 
couth frame,  and  exclaimed,  "  You  had  better  get 
a  porter's  knot,  and  carry  trunks.1'  Nor  was  the 
advice  bad  ;  for  a  porter  was  likely  to  be  as  plentifully 
fed,  and  as  comfortably  lodged,  as  a  poet. 

Some  time  appears  to  have  elapsed  before  Johnson 
was  able  to  form  any  literary  connection  from  which 
he  could  expect  more  than  bread  for  the  day  which 
was  passing  over  him.  He  never  forgot  the  gener- 
osity with  which  Hervey.  who  was  now  residing  in 
London,  relieved  his  wants  during  this  time  of  trial. 
"  Harry  Hervey,"  said  the  old  philosopher  many 
years  later,  "  was  a  vicious  man  ;  but  he  was  very  kind 
to  me.  If  you  call  a  dog  Hervey  I  shall  love  him." 
At  Hervey's  table  Johnson  sometimes  enjoyed  feasts 
which  were  made  more  agreeable  by  contrast.  But 
in  general  he  dined,  and  thought  that  he  dined  well, 
on  six  pennyworth  of  meat,  and  a  pennyworth  of 
bread,  at  an  alehouse  near  Drury  Lane. 

The  effect  of  the  privations  and  sufferings  which 
he  endured  at  this  time  was  discernible  to  the  last 
in  his  temper  and  his  deportment.  His  manners  had 
never  been  courtly.  They  now  became  almost  sav- 
age. Being  frequently  under  the  necessity  of  wearing 
shabby  coats  and  dirty  shirts,  he  became  a  perfect 


282  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

sloven.  Being  often  very  hungry  when  he  sat  down 
to  his  meals,  he  contracted  a  habit  of  eating  with 
ravenous  greediness.  Even  to  the  end  of  his  life, 
and  even  at  the  tables  of  the  great,  the  sight  of  food 
affected  him  as  it  affects  wild  beasts  and  birds  of  prey. 
His  taste  in  cookery,  formed  in  subterranean  ordi- 
naries and  alamode  beefshops,  was  far  from  delicate. 
Whenever  he  was  fortunate  to  have  near  him  a  hare 
that  had  been  kept  too  long,  or  meat  pie  made  with 
rancid  butter,  he  gorged  himself  with  such  violence 
that  his  veins  swelled,  and  the  moisture  broke  out  on 
his  forehead.  The  affronts  which  his  poverty  em- 
boldened stupid  and  low-minded  men  to  offer  to  him 
would  have  broken  a  mean  spirit  into  sycophancy, 
but  made  him  rude  even  to  ferocity.  Unhappily  the 
insolence  which,  while  it  was  defensive,  was  pardon- 
able, and  in  some  sense  respectable,  accompanied 
him  into  societies  where  he  was  treated  with  courtesy 
and  kindness.  He  was  repeatedly  provoked  into 
striking  those  who  had  taken  liberties  with  him.  All 
the  sufferers,  however,  were  wise  enough  to  abstain 
from  talking  about  their  beatings,  except  Osborne, 
the  most  rapacious  and  brutal  of  booksellers,  who 
proclaimed  everywhere  that  he  had  been  knocked 
down  by  the  huge  fellow  whom  he  had  hired  to  puff 
the  Harleian  Library. 

About  a  year  after  Johnson  had  begun  to  reside  in 
London,  he  was  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  regular 
employment  from  Cave,  an  enterprising  and  intelli- 
gent bookseller,  who  was  proprietor  and  editor  of  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine.  That  journal,  just  enter- 
ing on  the  ninth  year  of  its  long  existence,  was  the 
only  periodical  work  in  the  kingdom  which  then  had 
what  would  now  be  called  a  large  circulation.     It  was. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  283 

indeed,  the  chief  source  of  parliamentary  intelligence. 
It  was  not  then  safe,  even  during  recess,  to  publish 
an  account  of  the  proceedings  of  either  House  with- 
out some  disguise.  Cave,  however,  ventured  to  enter- 
tain his  readers  with  what  he  called  "  Reports  of  the 
Debates  of  the  Senate  of  Lilliput.11  France  was  Ble- 
fuscu ;  London  was  Mildendo;  pounds  were  sprugs ; 
the  Duke  of  Newcastle  was  the  Nardac  Secretary  of 
State  ;  Lord  Hardwicke  was  the  Hurgo  Hickrad  ;  and 
William  Pulteney  was  Wingul  Pulnub.  To  write  the 
speeches  was,  during  several  years,  the  business  of 
Johnson.  He  was  generally  furnished  with  notes, 
meagre,  indeed,  and  inaccurate,  of  what  had  been 
said ;  but  sometimes  he  had  to  find  arguments  and 
eloquence  both  for  the  ministry  and  for  the  opposi- 
tion. He  was  himself  a  Tory,  not  from  rational  con- 
viction —  for  his  serious  opinion  was  that  one  form 
of  government  was  just  as  good  or  as  bad  as  another 
—  but  from  mere  passion,  such  as  inflamed  the  Capu- 
lets  against  the  Montagues,  or  the  Blues  of  the  Roman 
circus  against  the  Greens.  In  his  infancy  he  had 
heard  so  much  talk  about  the  villainies  of  the  Whigs, 
and  the  dangers  of  the  Church,  that  he  had  become 
a  furious  partisan  when  he  could  scarcely  speak. 
Before  he  was  three  he  had  insisted  on  being  taken 
to  hear  Sacheverell  preach  at  Lichfield  Cathedral,  and 
had  listened  to  the  sermon  with  as  much  respect,  and 
probably  with  as  much  intelligence,  as  any  Stafford- 
shire squire  in  the  congregation.  The  work  which  had 
been  begun  in  the  nursery  had  been  completed  by  the 
university.  Oxford,  when  Johnson  resided  there,  was 
one  of  the  most  Jacobitical  colleges  in  Oxford.  The 
prejudices  which  he  brought  up  to  London  were 
scarcely   less   absurd   than   those   of  his   own  Tom 


284  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Tempest.  Charles  II.  and  James  II.  were  two  of  the 
best  kings  that  ever  reigned.  Laud,  a  poor  creature 
who  never  did,  said,  or  wrote  anything  indicating 
more  than  the  ordinary  capacity  of  an  old  woman, 
was  a  prodigy  of  parts  and  learning  over  whose  tomb 
Art  and  Genius  still  continued  to  weep.  Hampden 
deserved  no  more  honorable  name  than  that  of  "  the 
zealot  of  rebellion.11  Even  the  ship  money,  con- 
demned not  less  decidedly  by  Falkland  and  Claren- 
don than  by  the  bitterest  Roundheads,  Johnson  would 
not  pronounce  to  have  been  an  unconstitutional  im- 
post. Under  a  government,  the  mildest  that  had 
ever  been  known  in  the  world  —  under  a  government 
which  allowed  to  the  people  an  unprecedented 
liberty  of  speech  and  action  —  he  fancied  that  he 
was  a  slave ;  he  assailed  the  ministry  with  obloquy 
which  refuted  itself,  and  regretted  the  lost  freedom 
and  happiness  of  those  golden  days  in  which  a  writer 
who  had  taken  but  one-tenth  part  of  the  license 
allowed  to  him  would  have  been  pilloried,  mangled 
with  the  shears,  whipped  at  the  cart's  tail,  and  flung 
into  a  noisome  dungeon  to  die.  He  hated  dissenters 
and  stock-jobbers,  the  excise  and  the  army,  septennial 
parliaments,  and  continental  connections.  He  long 
had  an  aversion  to  the  Scotch,  an  aversion  of  which 
he  could  not  remember  the  commencement,  but 
which,  he  owned,  had  probably  originated  in  his 
abhorrence  of  the  conduct  of  the  nation  during  the 
Great  Rebellion.  It  is  easy  to  guess  in  what  manner 
debates  on  great  party  questions  were  likely  to  be 
reported  by  a  man  whose  judgment  was  so  much  dis- 
ordered by  party  spirit.  A  show  of  fairness  was 
indeed  necessary  to  the  prosperity  of  the  Magazine. 
But  Johnson  long  afterwards  owned  that,  though  he 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  285 

had  saved  appearances,  he  had  taken  care  that  the 
Whig  dogs  should  not  have  the  best  of  it ;  and,  in 
fact,  every  passage  which  has  lived,  every  passage 
which  bears  the  marks  of  his  higher  faculties,  is  put 
into  the  mouth  of  some  member  of  the  opposition. 

A  few  weeks  after  Johnson  had  entered  on  these 
obscure  labors,  he  published  a  work  which  at  once 
placed  him  high  among  the  writers  of  the  age.  It  is 
probable  that  what  he  had  suffered  during  his  first 
year  in  London  had  often  reminded  him  of  some  parts 
of  that  noble  poem  in  which  Juvenal  had  described 
the  misery  and  degradation  of  a  needy  man  of  letters, 
lodged  among  the  pigeons1  nests  in  the  tottering 
garrets  which  overhung  the  streets  of  Rome.  Pope's 
admirable  imitations  of  Horace's  Satires  and  Epistles 
had  recently  appeared,  were  in  every  hand,  and  were 
by  many  readers  thought  superior  to  the  originals. 
What  Pope  had  done  for  Horace,  Johnson  aspired  to 
do  for  Juvenal.  The  enterprise  was  bold,  and  yet 
judicious,  for  between  Johnson  and  Juvenal  there  was 
much  in  common,  much  more  certainly  than  between 
Pope  and  Horace. 

Johnson's  London  appeared  without  his  name  in 
May,  1738.  He  received  only  ten  guineas  for  this 
stately  and  vigorous  poem  :  but  the  sale  was  rapid,  and 
the  success  complete.  A  second  edition  was  required 
within  a  week.  Those  small  critics  who  are  always 
desirous  to  lower  established  reputations  ran  about 
proclaiming  that  the  anonymous  satirist  was  superior 
to  Pope  in  Pope's  own  peculiar  department  of  litera- 
ture. It  ought  to  be  remembered,  to  the  honor  of 
Pope,  that  he  joined  heartily  in  the  applause  with 
which  the  appearance  of  a  rival  genius  was  welcomed. 
He  made  inquiries  about  the  author  of  London.     Such 


286  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

a  man,  he  said,  could  not  long  be  concealed.  The 
name  was  soon  discovered  ;  and  Pope,  with  great  kind- 
ness, exerted  himself  to  obtain  an  academical  degree 
and  the  mastership  of  a  grammar  school  for  the  poor 
young  poet.  The  attempt  failed ;  and  Johnson  re- 
mained a  bookseller's  hack. 

It  does  not  appear  that  these  two  men,  the  most 
eminent  writer  of  the  generation  which  was  going  out, 
and  the  most  eminent  writer  of  the  generation  which 
was  coming  in,  ever  saw  each  other.  They  lived  in 
very  different  circles,  one  surrounded  by  dukes  and 
earls,  the  other  by  starving  pamphleteers  and  index- 
makers.  Among  Johnson's  associates  at  this  time  may 
be  mentioned  Boyse,  who,  when  his  shirts  were 
pledged,  scrawled  Latin  verses  sitting  up  in  bed  with 
his  arms  through  two  holes  in  his  blanket ;  who  com- 
posed very  respectable  sacred  poetry  when  he  was 
sober ;  and  who  was  at  last  run  over  by  a  hackney 
coach  when  he  was  drunk:  Hoole,  surnamed  the 
metaphysical  tailor,  who,  instead  of  attending  to  his 
measures,  used  to  trace  geometrical  diagrams  on  the 
board  where  he  sate  cross-legged  :  and  the  penitent 
impostor,  George  Psalmanazar,  who,  after  poring  all 
day,  in  a  humble  lodging,  on  the  folios  of  Jewish 
rabbis  and  Christian  fathers,  indulged  himself  at  night 
with  literary  and  theological  conversation  at  an  ale- 
house in  the  city.  But  the  most  remarkable  of  the 
persons  with  whom  at  this  time  Johnson  consorted 
was  Richard  Savage,  an  earl's  son,  a  shoemaker's 
apprentice,  who  had  seen  life  in  all  its  forms,  who  had 
feasted  among  blue  ribands  in  St.  James's  Square,  and 
had  lain  with  fifty  pounds'  weight  of  iron  on  his  legs 
in  the  condemned  ward  of  Newgate.  This  man  had, 
after  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  sunk  at  last  into 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  287 

abject  and  hopeless  poverty.  His  pen  had  failed  him. 
His  patrons  had  been  taken  away  by  death,  or  es- 
tranged by  the  riotous  profusion  with  which  he  squan- 
dered their  bounty,  and  the  ungrateful  insolence  with 
which  he  rejected  their  advice.  He  now  lived  by  beg- 
ging. He  dined  on  venison  and  champagne  whenever 
he  had  been  so  fortunate  as  to  borrow  a  guinea.  If 
his  questing  had  been  unsuccessful,  he  appeased  the 
rage  of  hunger  with  some  scraps  of  broken  meat,  and 
lay  down  to  rest  under  the  Piazza  of  Covent  Garden 
in  warm  weather,  and,  in  cold  weather,  as  near  as  he 
could  get  to  the  furnace  of  a  glass-house.  Yet,  in  his 
misery,  he  was  still  an  agreeable  companion.  He  had 
an  inexhaustible  store  of  anecdotes  about  that  gay  and 
brilliant  world  from  which  he  was  now  an  outcast.  He 
had  observed  the  great  men  of  both  parties  in  hours  of 
careless  relaxation,  had  seen  the  leaders  of  opposition 
without  the  mask  of  patriotism,  and  had  heard  the 
prime  minister  roar  with  laughter  and  tell  stories  not 
over  decent.  During  some  months  Savage  lived  in 
the  closest  familiarity  writh  Johnson  ;  and  then  the 
friends  parted,  not  without  tears.  Johnson  remained 
in  London  to  drudge  for  Cave.  Savage  went  to  the 
West  of  England,  lived  there  as  he  had  lived  every- 
where, and,  in  1743,  died,  penniless  and  heart-broken, 
in  Bristol  jail. 

Soon  after  his  death,  while  the  public  curiosity  was 
strongly  excited  about  his  extraordinary  character, 
and  his  not  less  extraordinary  adventures,  a  life  of  him 
appeared  widely  different  from  the  catchpenny  lives 
of  eminent  men  which  were  then  a  staple  article  jof 
manufacture  in  Grub  Street.  The  style  was  indeed 
deficient  in  ease  and  variety ;  and  the  writer  was  evi- 
dently too  partial  to  the  Latin  element  of  our  language. 


288  LITERARY  ESSAYS, 

But  the  little  work,  with  all  its  faults,  was  a  master- 
piece. No  finer  specimen  of  literary  biography  existed 
in  any  language,  living  or  dead  ;  and  a  discerning  critic 
might  have  confidently  predicted  that  the  author  was 
destined  to  be  the  founder  of  a  new  school  of  English 
eloquence. 

The  life  of  Savage  was  anonymous  ;  but  it  was  well 
known  in  literary  circles  that  Johnson  was  the  writer. 
During  the  three  years  which  followed,  he  produced 
no  important  work  ;  but  he  was  not,  and  indeed  could 
not  be,  idle.  The  fame  of  his  abilities  and  learning 
continued  to  grow.  Warburton  pronounced  him  a 
man  of  parts  and  genius  ;  and  the  praise  of  Warburton 
was  then  no  light  thing.  Such  was  Johnson's  reputa- 
tion that,  in  1747,  several  eminent  booksellers  com- 
bined to  employ  him  in  the  arduous  work  of  preparing 
a  Dictionary  of  the  English  language,  in  two  folio 
volumes.  The  sum  which  they  agreed  to  pay  him 
was  only  fifteen  hundred  guineas  :  and  out  of  this  sum 
he  had  to  pay  several  poor  men  of  letters  who  assisted 
him  in  the  humbler  parts  of  his  task. 

The  prospectus  of  the  Dictionary  he  addressed  to 
the  Earl  of  Chesterfield.  Chesterfield  had  long  been 
celebrated  for  the  politeness  of  his  manners,  the  brill- 
iancy of  his  wit,  and  the  delicacy  of  his  taste.  He  was 
acknowledged  to  be  the  finest  speaker  in  the  House 
of  Lords.  He  had  recently  governed  Ireland,  at  a 
momentous  conjuncture,  with  eminent  firmness,  wis- 
dom, and  humanity :  and  he  had  since  become  Secre- 
tary of  State.  He  received  Johnson's  homage  with 
the  most  winning  affability,  and  requited  it  with  a  few 
guineas,  bestowed  doubtless  in  a  very  graceful  manner, 
but  was  by  no  means  desirous  to  see  all  his  carpets 
blackened  with  the  London  mud,  and  his  soups  and 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  289 

wines  thrown  to  right  and  left  over  the  gowns  of  fine 
ladies  and  the  waistcoats  of  fine  gentlemen,  by  an 
absent,  awkward  scholar,  who  gave  strange  starts 
and  uttered  strange  growls,  who  dressed  like  a  scare- 
crow, and  ate  like  a  cormorant.  During  some  time 
Johnson  continued  to  call  on  his  patron,  but,  after 
being  repeatedly  told  by  the  porter  that  his  lordship 
was  not  at  home,  took  the  hint,  and  ceased  to  present 
himself  at  the  inhospitable  door. 

Johnson  had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  have 
completed  his  Dictionary  by  the  end  of  1750;  but  it 
was  not  till  1755  tnat  ne  at  length  gave  his  huge 
volumes  to  the  world.  During  the  seven  years  which 
he  passed  in  the  drudgery  of  penning  definitions  and 
marking  quotations  for  transcription,  he  sought  for 
relaxation  in  literary  labor  of  a  more  agreeable  kind. 
In  1749  he  published  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes, 
an  excellent  imitation  of  the  Tenth  Satire  of  Juvenal. 
It  is  in  truth  not  easy  to  say  whether  the  palm  be- 
longs to  the  ancient  or  to  the  modern  poet.  The 
couplets  in  which  the  fall  of  Wolsey  is  described, 
though  lofty  and  sonorous,  are  feeble  when  compared 
with  the  wonderful  lines  which  bring  before  us  all 
Rome  in  tumult  on  the  day  of  the  fall  of  Sejanus,  the 
laurels  on  the  door-posts,  the  white  bull  stalking 
towards  the  Capitol,  the  statues  rolling  down  from 
their  pedestals,  the  flatterers  of  the  disgraced  minister 
running  to  see  him  dragged  with  a  hook  through  the 
streets,  and  to  have  a  kick  at  his  carcase  before  it  is 
hurled  into  the  Tiber.  It  must  be  owned  too  that  in 
the  concluding  passage  the  Christian  moralist  has  not 
made  the  most  of  his  advantages,  and  has  fallen 
decidedly  short  of  the  sublimity  of  his  Pagan  model. 
On  the  other  hand,  Juvenal's  Hannibal  must  yield  to 


290  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Johnson's  Charles ;  and  Johnson's  vigorous  and  pa- 
thetic enumeration  of  the  miseries  of  a  literary  life 
must  be  allowed  to  be  superior  to  Juvenal's  lamenta- 
tion over  the  fate  of  Demosthenes  and  Cicero. 

For  the  copyright  of  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 
Johnson  received  only  fifteen  guineas. 

A  few  days  after  the  publication  of  this  poem,  his 
tragedy,  begun  many  years  before,  was  brought  on 
the  stage.  His  pupil,  David  Garrick,  had,  in  1741, 
made  his  appearance  on  a  humble  stage  in  Good- 
man's Fields,  had  at  once  risen  to  the  first  place 
among  actors,  and  was  now,  after  several  years  of 
almost  uninterrupted  success,  manager  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre.  The  relation  between  him  and  his  old  pre- 
ceptor was  of  a  very  singular  kind.  They  repelled 
each  other  strongly,  and  yet  attracted  each  other 
strongly.  Nature  had  made  them  of  very  different 
clay;  and  circumstances  had  fully  brought  out  the 
natural  peculiarities  of  both.  Sudden  prosperity  had 
turned  Garrick's  head.  Continued  adversity  had 
soured  Johnson's  temper.  Johnson  saw  with  more 
envy  than  became  so  great  a  man  the  villa,  the  plate, 
the  china,  the  Brussels  carpet,  which  the  little  mimic 
had  got  by  repeating,  with  grimaces  and  gesticula- 
tions, what  wiser  men  had  written ;  and  the  exqui- 
sitely sensitive  vanity  of  Garrick  was  galled  by  the 
thought  that,  while  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was 
applauding  him,  he  could  obtain  from  one  morose 
cynic,  whose  opinion  it  was  impossible  to  despise, 
scarcely  any  compliment  not  acidulated  with  scorn. 
Yet  the  two  Lichfield  men  had  so  many  early  recol- 
lections in  common,  and  sympathized  with  each  other 
on  so  many  points  on  which  they  sympathized  with 
nobody  else  in  the   vast   population  of  the   capital, 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  29 1 

that,  though  the  master  was  often  provoked  by  the 
monkey-like  impertinence  of  the  pupil,  and  the  pupil 
by  the  bearish  rudeness  of  the  master,  they  remained 
friends  till  they  were  parted  by  death.  Garrick  now 
brought  Irene  out,  with  alterations  sufficient  to  dis- 
please the  author,  yet  not  sufficient  to  make  the  piece 
pleasing  to  the  audience.  The  public,  however,  lis- 
tened with  little  emotion,  but  with  much  civility,  to 
five  acts  of  monotonous  declamation.  After  nine  rep- 
resentations the  play  was  withdrawn.  It  is,  indeed, 
altogether  unsuited  to  the  stage,  and,  even  when 
perused  in  the  closet,  will  be  found  hardly  worthy  of 
the  author.  He  had  not  the  slightest  notion  of  what 
blank  verse  should  be.  A  change  in  the  last  syllable 
of  every  other  line  would  make  the  versification  of 
the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  closely  resemble  the 
versification  of  Irene.  The  poet,  however,  cleared, 
by  his  benefit  nights,  and  by  the  sale  of  the  copyright 
of  his  tragedy,  about  three  hundred  pounds,  then  a 
great  sum  in  his  estimation. 

About  a  year  after  the  representation  of  Irene,  he 
began  to  publish  a  series  of  short  essays  on  morals, 
manners,  and  literature.  This  species  of  composition 
had  been  brought  into  fashion  by  the  success  of  the 
Tatler,  and  by  the  still  more  brilliant  success  of  the 
Spectator.  A  crowd  of  small  writers  had  vainly 
attempted  to  rival  Addison.  The  Lay  Monastery, 
the  Censor,  the  Freethinker,  the  Plain  Dealer,  the 
Champion,  and  other  works  of  the  same  kind,  had 
had  their  short  day.  None  of  them  had  obtained  a 
permanent  place  in  our  literature ;  and  they  are  now 
to  be  found  only  in  the  libraries  of  the  curious.  At 
length  Johnson  undertook  the  adventure  in  which  so 
many  aspirants  had  failed.     In  the  thirty-sixth  year 


292  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

after  the  appearance  of  the  last  number  of  the  Specta- 
tor appeared  the  first  number  of  the  Rambler.  From 
March  1750  to  March  1752,  this  paper  continued  to 
come  out  every  Tuesday  and  Saturday. 

From  the  first  the  Rambler  was  enthusiastically 
admired  by  a  few  eminent  men.  Richardson,  when 
only  five  numbers  had  appeared,  pronounced  it  equal, 
if  not  superior,  to  the  Spectator.  Young  and  Hartley 
expressed  their  approbation  not  less  warmly.  Bubb 
Dodington,  among  whose  many  faults  indifference  to 
the  claims  of  genius  and  learning  cannot  be  reckoned, 
solicited  the  acquaintance  of  the  writer.  In  conse- 
quence probably  of  the  good  offices  of  Dodington, 
who  was  then  the  confidential  adviser  of  Prince 
Frederic,  two  of  his  Royal  Highness's  gentlemen 
carried  a  gracious  message  to  the  printing  office,  and 
ordered  seven  copies  for  Leicester  House.  But  these 
overtures  seem  to  have  been  very  coldly  received. 
Johnson  had  had  enough  of  the  patronage  of  the 
great  to  last  him  all  his  life,  and  was  not  disposed  to 
haunt  any  other  door  as  he  had  haunted  the  door  of 
Chesterfield. 

By  the  public  the  Rambler  was  at  first  very  coldly 
received.  Though  the  price  of  a  number  was  only 
twopence,  the  sale  did  not  amount  to  five  hundred. 
The  profits  were  therefore  very  small.  But  as  soon 
as  the  flying  leaves  were  collected  and  reprinted  they 
became  popular.  The  author  lived  to  see  thirteen 
thousand  copies  spread  over  England  alone.  Separ- 
ate editions  were  published  for  the  Scotch  and  Irish 
markets.  A  large  party  pronounced  the  style  perfect, 
so  absolutely  perfect  that  in  some  essays  it  would  be 
impossible  for  the  writer  himself  to  alter  a  single  word 
for  the  better.     Another  party,  not  less   numerous, 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  293 

vehemently  accused  him  of  having  corrupted  the 
purity  of  the  English  tongue.  The  best  critics  ad- 
mitted that  his  diction  was  too  monotonous,  too 
obviously  artificial,  and  now  and  then  turgid  even  to 
absurdity.  But  they  did  justice  to  the  acuteness  of 
his  observations  on  morals  and  manners,  to  the  con- 
stant precision  and  frequent  brilliancy  of  his  lan- 
guage, to  the  weighty  and  magnificent  eloquence  of 
many  serious  passages,  and  to  the  solemn  yet  pleas- 
ing humor  of  some  of  the  lighter  papers.  On  the 
question  of  precedence  between  Addison  and  John- 
son, a  question  which,  seventy  years  ago,  was  much 
disputed,  posterity  has  pronounced  a  decision  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal.  Sir  Roger,  his  chaplain 
and  his  butler,  Will  Wimble  and  Will  Honeycomb, 
the  Vision  of  Mirza,  the  Journal  of  the  Retired  Citi- 
zen, the  Everlasting  Club,  the  Dunmow  Flitch,  the 
Loves  of  Hilpah  and  Shalum,  the  Visit  to  the  Ex- 
change, and  the  Visit  to  the  Abbey,  are  known  to 
everybody.  But  many  men  and  women,  even  of 
highly  cultivated  minds,  are  unacquainted  with  Squire 
Bluster  and  Mrs.  Busy,  Quisquilius  and  Venustulus, 
the  Allegory  of  Wit  and  Learning,  the  Chronicle  of 
the  Revolutions  of  a  Garret,  and  the  sad  fate  of 
Aningait  and  Ajut. 

The  last  Rambler  was  written  in  a  sad  and  gloomy 
hour.  Mrs.  Johnson  had  been  given  over  by  the 
physicians.  Three  days  later  she  died.  She  left  her 
husband  almost  broken-hearted.  Many  people  had 
been  surprised  to  see  a  man  of  his  genius  and  learn- 
ing stooping  to  every  drudgery,  and  denying  himself 
almost  every  comfort,  for  the  purpose  of  supplying 
a  silly,  affected  old  woman  with  superfluities,  which 
she  accepted  with  but  little  gratitude.     But   all   his 


294  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

affection  had  been  concentrated  on  her.  He  had 
neither  brother  nor  sister,  neither  son  nor  daughter. 
To  him  she  was  beautiful  as  the  Gunnings,  and 
witty  as  Lady  Mary.  Her  opinion  of  his  writings 
was  more  important  to  him  than  the  voice  of  the 
pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  or  the  judgment  of  the 
Monthly  Review.  The  chief  support  which  had  sus- 
tained him  through  the  most  arduous  labor  of  his 
life  was  the  hope  that  she  would  enjoy  the  fame  and 
profit  which  he  anticipated  from  his  Dictionary.  She 
was  gone ;  and  in  the  vast  labyrinth  of  streets, 
peopled  by  eight  hundred  thousand  human  beings, 
he_was  alone.  Yet  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  set 
himself,  as  he  expressed  it,  doggedly  to  work.  After 
three  more  laborious  years,  the  Dictionary  was  at 
length  complete. 

It  had  been  generally  supposed  that  this  great 
work  would  be  dedicated  to  the  eloquent  and  accom- 
plished nobleman  to  whom  the  prospectus  had  been 
addressed.  He  well  knew  the  value  of  such  a  compli- 
ment :  and,  therefore,  when  the  day  of  publication  drew 
near,  he  exerted  himself  to  soothe,  by  a  show  of  zeal- 
ous and  at  the  same  time  of  delicate  and  judicious 
kindness,  the  pride  which  he  had  so  cruelly  wounded. 
Since  the  Ramblers  had  ceased  to  appear,  the  town 
had  been  entertained  by  a  journal  called  The  World, 
to  which  many  men  of  high  rank  and  fashion  con- 
tributed. In  two  successive  numbers  of  The  World 
the  Dictionary  was,  to  use  the  modern  phrase,  puffed 
with  wonderful  skill.  The  writings  of  Johnson  were 
warmly  praised.  It  was  proposed  that  he  should  be 
invested  with  the  authority  of  a  Dictator,  nay,  of  a 
Pope,  over  our  language,  and  that  his  decisions 
about  the  meaning  and  the  spelling  of  words  should 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  295 

be  received  as  final.  His  two  folios,  it  was  said, 
would  of  course  be  bought  by  everybody  who  could 
afford  to  buy  them.  It  was  soon  known  that  these 
papers  were  written  by  Chesterfield.  But  the  just  re- 
sentment of  Johnson  was  not  to  be  so  appeased.  In 
a  letter  written  with  singular  energy  and  dignity  of 
thought  and  language,  he  repelled  the  tardy  advances 
of  his  patron.  The  Dictionary  came  forth  without  a 
dedication.  In  the  preface  the  author  truly  declared 
that  he  owed  nothing  to  the  great,  and  described  the 
difficulties  with  which  he  had  been  left  to  struggle  so 
forcibly  and  pathetically  that  the  ablest  and  most 
malevolent  of  all  the  enemies  of  his  fame,  Home 
Tooke,  never  could  read  that  passage  without  tears. 

The  public,  on  this  occasion,  did  Johnson  full  jus- 
tice, and  something  more  than  justice.  The  best 
lexicographer  may  well  be  content  if  his  productions 
are  received. by  the  world  with  cold  esteem.  But 
Johnson's  Dictionary  was  hailed  with  an  enthusiasm 
such  as  no  similar  work  has  ever  excited.  It  was 
indeed  the  first  dictionary  which  could  be  read  with 
pleasure.  The  definitions  show  so  much  acuteness 
of  thought  and  command  of  language,  and  the  pas- 
sages quoted  from  poets,  divines,  and  philosophers  are 
so  skilfully  selected,  that  a  leisure  hour  may  always 
be  very  agreeably  spent  in  turning  over  the  pages. 
The  faults  of  the  book  resolve  themselves,  for  the 
most  part,  into  one  great  fault.  Johnson  was  a 
wretched  etymologist.  He  knew  little  or  nothing  of 
any  Teutonic  language  except  English,  which  indeed, 
as  he  wrote  it,  was  scarcely  a  Teutonic  language ;  and 
thus  he  was  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of  Junius  and 
Skinner. 

The  Dictionary,  though  it  raised  Johnson's  fame, 


296  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

added  nothing  to  his  pecuniary  means.  The  fifteen 
hundred  guineas  which  the  booksellers  had  agreed  to 
pay  him  had  been  advanced  and  spent  before  the 
last  sheets  issued  from  the  press.  It  is  painful  to 
relate  that,  twice  in  the  course  of  the  year  which  fol- 
lowed the  publication  of  this  great  work,  he  was 
arrested  and  carried  to  spunging-houses,  and  that  he 
was  twice  indebted  for  his  liberty  to  his  excellent 
friend  Richardson.  It  was  still  necessary  for  the 
man  who  had  been  formally  saluted  by  the  highest 
authority  as  Dictator  of  the  English  language  to  sup- 
ply  his  wants  by  constant  toil.  He  abridged  his 
Tictionary.  He  proposed  to  bring  out  an  edition  of 
Shakspeare  by  subscription ;  and  many  subscribers 
sent  in  their  names,  and  laid  down  their  money ;  but 
he  soon  found  the  task  so  little  to  his  taste  that  he 
turned  to  more  attractive  employments.  He  contribu- 
ted many  papers  to  a  new  monthly  journal,  which  was 
called  the  Literary  Magazine.  Few  of  these  papers 
have  much  interest ;  but  among  them  was  the  very 
best  thing  that  he  ever  wrote,  a  masterpiece  both  of 
reasoning  and  of  satirical  pleasantry,  the  review  of 
Jenyns's  Inquiry  into  the  Nature  and  Origin  of  Evil. 

In  the  spring  of  1758  Johnson  put  forth  the  first  of 
a  series  of  essays,  entitled  The  Idler.  During  two 
years  these  essays  continued  to  appear  weekly.  They 
were  eagerly  read,  widely  circulated,  and,  indeed,  im- 
pudently pirated,  while  they  were  still  in  the  original 
form,  and  had  a  large  sale  when  collected  into  vol- 
umes. The  Idler  may  be  described  as  a  second  part 
of  the  Rambler,  somewhat  livelier  and  somewhat 
weaker  than  the  first  part. 

While  Johnson  was  busied  with  his  Idlers,  his 
mother,   who   had   accomplished  her  ninetieth  year, 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  297 

died  at  Lichfield.  It  was  long  since  he  had  seen 
her ;  but  he  had  not  failed  to  contribute  largely,  out 
of  his  small  means,  to  her  comfort.  In  order  to  de- 
fray the  charges  of  her  funeral,  and  to  pay  some  debts 
which  she  had  left,  he  wrote  a  little  book  in  a  single 
week,  and  sent  off  the  sheets  to  the  press  without  read- 
ing them  over.  A  hundred  pounds  were  paid  him  for 
the  copyright ;  and  the  purchasers  had  great  cause 
to  be  pleased  with  their  bargain ;  for  the  book  was 
Rasselas. 

The  success  of  Rasselas  was  great,  though  such 
ladies  as  Miss  Lydia  Languish  must  have  been  griev- 
ously disappointed  when  they  found  that  the  new 
volume  from  the  circulating  library  was  little  more 
than  a  dissertation  on  the  author's  favorite  theme,  the 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  ;  that  the  Prince  of  Abys- 
sinia was  without  a  mistress,  and  the  Princess  without 
a  lover ;  and  that  the  story  set  the  hero  and  the  hero- 
ine down  exactly  where  it  had  taken  them  up.  The 
style  was  the  subject  of  much  eager  controversy.  The 
Monthly  Review  and  the  Critical  Review  took  different 
sides.  Many  readers  pronounced  the  writer  a  pompous 
pedant,  who  would  never  use  a  word  of  two  syllables 
where  it  was  possible  to  use  a  word  of  six,  and  who 
could  not  make  a  waiting  woman  relate  her  advent- 
ures without  balancing  every  noun  with  another  noun, 
and  every  epithet  with  another  epithet.  Another 
party,  not  less  zealous,  cited  with  delight  numerous 
passages  in  which  weighty  meaning  was  expressed 
with  accuracy  and  illustrated  with  splendor.  And 
both  the  censure  and  the  praise  were  merited. 

About  the  plan  of  Rasselas  little  was  said  by  the 
critics ;  and  yet  the  faults  of  the  plan  might  seem 
to  invite  severe  criticism.     Johnson  has  frequently 


29K  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

blamed  Shakspeare  for  neglecting  the  proprieties  of 
time  and  place,  and  for  ascribing  to  one  age  or  nation 
the  manners  and  opinions  of  another.  Yet  Shakspeare 
has  not  sinned  in  this  way  more  grievously  than  John- 
son. Rasselas  and  Imlac,  Nekayah  and  Pekuah,  are 
evidently  meant  to  be  Abyssinians  of  the  eighteenth 
century  :  for  the  Europe  which  Imlac  describes  is  the 
Europe  of  the  eighteenth  century ;  and  the  inmates 
of  the  Happy  Valley  talk  familiarly  of  that  law  of 
gravitation  which  Newton  discovered,  and  which  was 
not  fully  received  even  at  Cambridge  till  the  eigh- 
teenth century.  What  a  real  company  of  Abyssinians 
would  have  been  may  be  learned  from  Bruce's  Travels. 
But  Johnson,  not  content  with  turning  filthy  savages, 
ignorant  of  their  letters,  and  gorged  with  raw  steaks 
cut  from  living  cows,  into  philosophers  as  eloquent 
and  enlightened  as  himself  or  his  friend  Burke,  and 
into  ladies  as  highly  accomplished  as  Mrs.  Lennox  or 
Mrs.  Sheridan,  transferred  the  whole  domestic  system 
of  England  to  Egypt.  Into  a  land  of  harems,  a  land 
of  polygamy,  a  land  where  women  are  married  with- 
out ever  being  seen,  he  introduced  the  flirtations  and 
jealousies  of  our  ball-rooms.  In  a  land  where  there 
is  boundless  liberty  of  divorce,  wedlock  is  described 
as  the  indissoluble  compact.  "  A  youth  and  maiden 
meeting  by  chance,  or  brought  together  by  artifice, 
exchange  glances,  reciprocate  civilities,  go  home,  and 
dream  of  each  other.  Such,"  says  Rasselas,  "is  the 
common  process  of  marriage.11  Such  it  may  have 
been,  and  may  still  be,  in  London,  but  assuredly  not 
at  Cairo.  A  writer  who  was  guilty  of  such  improprie- 
ties had  little  right  to  blame  the  poet  who  made 
Hector  quote  Aristotle,  and  represented  Julio  Romano 
as  flourishing  in  the  days  of  the  oracle  of  Delphi. 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  299 

By  such  exertions  as  have  been  described,  Johnson 
supported  himself  till  the  year  1762.  In  that  year  a 
great  change  in  his  circumstances  took  place.  He 
had  from  a  child  been  an  enemy  of  the  reigning 
dynasty.  His  Jacobite  prejudices  had  been  exhibited 
with  little  disguise  both  in  his  works  and  in  his  con- 
versation. Even  in  his  massy  and  elaborate  Dic- 
tionary, he  had,  with  a  strange  want  of  taste  and 
judgment,  inserted  bitter  and  contumelious  reflec- 
tions on  the  Whig  party.  The  excise,  which  was 
a  favorite  resource  of  Whig  financiers,  he  had  desig- 
nated as  a  hateful  tax.  He  had  railed  against  the 
commissioners  of  excise  in  language  so  coarse  that 
they  had  seriously  thought  of  prosecuting  him.  He 
had  with  difficulty  been  prevented  from  holding  up 
the  Lord  Privy  Seal  by  name  as  an  example  of  the 
meaning  of  the  word  "  renegade.1'  A  pension  he  had 
defined  as  pay  given  to  a  state  hireling  to  betray  his 
country ;  a  pensioner  as  a  slave  of  state  hired  by  a 
stipend  to  obey  a  master.  It  seemed  unlikely  that 
the  author  of  these  definitions  would  himself  be  pen- 
sioned. But  that  was  a  time  of  wonders.  George 
the  Third  had  ascended  the  throne ;  and  had,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months,  disgusted  many  of  the  old 
friends  and  conciliated  many  of  the  old  enemies  of 
his  house.  The  city  was  becoming  mutinous.  Oxford 
was  becoming  loyal.  Cavendishes  and  Bentincks  were 
murmuring.  Somersets  and  Wyndhams  were  hasten- 
ing to  kiss  hands.  The  head  of  the  treasury  was  now 
Lord  Bute,  who  was  a  Tory,  and  could  have  no  objec- 
tion to  Johnson's  Toryism.  Bute  wished  to  be  thought 
a  patron  of  men  of  letters ;  and  Johnson  was  one  of 
the  most  eminent  and  one  of  the  most  needy  men  of 
letters  in  Europe.     A  pension  of  three  hundred  a  year 


300  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

was  graciously  offered,  and  with  very  little  hesitation 
accepted. 

This  event  produced  a  change  in  Johnson's  whole 
way  of  life.  For  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood  he 
no  longer  felt  the  daily  goad  urging  him  to  the  daily 
toil.  He  was  at  liberty,  after  thirty  years  of  anxiety 
and  drudgery,  to  indulge  his  constitutional  indolence, 
to  lie  in  bed  till  two  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  sit  up 
talking  till  four  in  the  morning,  without  fearing  either 
the  printer's  devil  or  the  sheriff's  officer. 

One  laborious  task  indeed  he  had  bound  himself  to 
perform.  He  had  received  large  subscriptions  for  his 
promised  edition  of  Shakspeare  ;  he  had  lived  on  those 
subscriptions  during  some  years ;  and  he  could  not 
without  disgrace  omit  to  perform  his  part  of  the  con- 
tract. His  friends  repeatedly  exhorted  him  to  make 
an  effort ;  and  he  repeatedly  resolved  to  do  so.  But, 
notwithstanding  their  exhortations  and  his  resolu- 
tions, month  followed  month,  year  followed  year,  and 
nothing  was  done.  He  prayed  fervently  against  his 
idleness ;  he  determined,  as  often  as  he  received  the 
sacrament,  that  he  would  no  longer  doze  away  and 
trifle  away  his  time ;  but  the  spell  under  which  he 
lay  resisted  prayer  and  sacrament.  His  private  notes 
at  this  time  are  made  up  of  self-reproaches.  "  My 
indolence,11  he  wrote  on  Easter  eve  in  1764,  "has 
sunk  into  grosser  sluggishness.  A  kind  of  strange 
oblivion  has  overspread  me,  so  that  I  know  not  what 
has  become  of  the  last  year.*1  Easter  1765  came,  and 
found  him  still  in  the  same  state.  "  My  time,*'  he 
wrote,  "  has  been  unprofitably  spent,  and  seems  as  a 
dream  that  has  left  nothing  behind.  My  memory 
grows  confused,  and  I  know  not  how  the  days  pass 
over  me."     Happily  for  his  honor,  the  charm  which 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  30I 

held  him  captive  was  at  length  broken  by  no  gentle 
or  friendly  hand.  He  had  been  weak  enough  to  pay 
serious  attention  to  a  story  about  a  ghost  which 
haunted  a  house  in  Cock  Lane,  and  had  actually  gone 
himself,  with  some  of  his  friends,  at  one  in  the  morn- 
ing, to  St.  John's  Church,  Clerkenwell,  in  the  hope  of 
receiving  a  communication  from  the  perturbed  spirit. 
But  the  spirit,  though  adjured  with  all  solemnity, 
remained  obstinately  silent ;  and  it  soon  appeared 
that  a  naughty  girl  of  eleven  had  been  amusing 
herself  by  making  fools  of  so  many  philosophers. 
Churchill,  who,  confident  in  his  powers,  drunk  with 
popularity,  and  burning  with  party  spirit,  was  looking 
for  some  man  of  established  fame  and  Tory  politics 
to  insult,  celebrated  the  Cock  Lane  Ghost  in  three 
cantos,  nicknamed  Johnson  Pomposo,  asked  where 
the  book  was  which  had  been  so  long  promised  and 
so  liberally  paid  for,  and  directly  accused  the  great 
moralist  of  cheating.  This  terrible  word  proved 
effectual;  and  in  October,  1765,  appeared,  after  a 
delay  of  nine  years,  the  new  edition  of  Shakspeare. 

This  publication  saved  Johnson's  character  for 
honesty,  but  added  nothing  to  the  fame  of  his  abili- 
ties and  learning.  The  preface,  though  it  contains 
some  good  passages,  is  not  in  his  best  manner.  The 
most  valuable  notes  are  those  in  which  he  had  an 
opportunity  of  showing  how  attentively  he  had  during 
many  years  observed  human  life  and  human  nature. 
The  best  specimen  is  the  note  on  the  character  of 
Polonius.  Nothing  so  good  is  to  be  found  even  in 
Wilhelm  Meister's  admirable  examination  of  Hamlet. 
But  here  praise  must  end.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
name  a  more  slovenly,  a  more  worthless,  edition  of 
any  great  classic.     The  reader  may  turn   over  plaj 


302  LITERARY  ESSAYS, 

after  play  without  finding  one  happy  conjectural 
emendation,  or  one  ingenious  and  satisfactory  expla- 
nation of  a  passage  which  had  baffled  preceding  com- 
mentators. Johnson  had.  in  his  Prospectus,  told  the 
world  that  he  was  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  task  which 
he  had  undertaken,  because  he  had,  as  a  lexicog- 
rapher, been  under  the  necessity  of  taking  a  wider 
view  of  the  English  language  than  any  of  his  pred- 
ecessors ,  That  his  knowledge  of  our  literature 
was  extensive  is  indisputable.  But,  unfortunately,  he 
had  altogether  neglected  that  very  part  of  our  litera- 
ture with  which  it  is  especially  desirable  that  an 
editor  of  Shakspeare  should  be  conversant.  It  is 
dangerous  to  assert  a  negative.  Yet  little  will  be 
risked  by  the  assertion,  that  in  the  two  folio  volumes 
of  the  English  Dictionary  there  is  not  a  single  pas- 
sage quoted  from  any  dramatist  of  the  Elizabethan 
age.  except  Shakspeare  and  Ben.  Even  from  Ben 
the  quotations  are  few.  Johnson  might  easily,  in  a 
few  months,  have  made  himself  well  acquainted  with 
every  old  play  that  was  extant.  But  it  never  seems 
to  have  occurred  to  him  that  this  was  a  necessary 
preparation  for  the  work  which  he  had  undertaken. 
He  would  doubtless  have  admitted  that  it  would  be 
the  height  of  absurdity  in  a  man  who  was  not  familiar 
with  the  works  of  .-Eschylus  and  Euripides  to  publish 
an  edition  of  Sophocles.  Yet  he  ventured  to  publish 
an  edition  of  Shakspeare.  without  having  ever  in  his 
life,  as  far  as  can  be  discovered,  read  a  single  scene  of 
Massinger.  Ford.  Decker.  Webster.  Marlowe.  Beau- 
mont, or  Fletcher.  His  detractors  were  noisy  and 
scurrilous.  Those  who  most  loved  and  honored  him 
had  little  to  say  in  praise  of  the  manner  in  which  he 
had  discharged  the  duty  of  a  commentator.     He  had, 


SAMUEL  JOHXSOX.  3C3 

however,  acquitted  himself  of  a  debt  which  had  long 
lain  heavy  on  his  conscience :  and  he  sank  back  into 
the  repose  from  which  the  sting  of  satire  had  roused 
him.  He  long  continued  to  live  upon  the  fame  which 
lie  had  already  won.  He  was  honored  by  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oxford  with  a  Doctor's  degree,  by  the 
Royal  Academy  with  a  professorship,  and  by  the 
Kmg  with  an  interview,  in  which  his  Majesty  most 
graciously  expressed  a  hope  that  so  excellent  a  writer 
would  not  cease  to  write.  In  the  interval,  however, 
between  1765  and  1775  Johnson  published  only  two 
or  three  political  tracts,  the  longest  of  which  he  could 
have  produced  in  forty-eight  hours,  if  he  had  worked 
as  he  worked  on  the  Life  of  Savage  and  on  Rasselas. 
But.  though  his  pen  was  now  idle,  his  tongue  was 
active.  The  influence  exercised  by  his  conversation, 
directly  upon  those  with  whom  he  lived,  and  indirectly 
on  the  whole  literary  world,  was  altogether  without  a 
parallel.  His  colloquial  talents  were  indeed  of  the 
highest  order.  He  had  strong  sense,  quick  discern- 
ment, wit.  humor,  immense  knowledge  of  literature 
and  of  life,  and  an  infinite  store  of  curious  anecc 
As  respected  style,  he  spoke  far  better  than  he  wrote. 
Every  sentence  which  dropped  from  his  lips  was  as 
correct  in  structure  as  the  most  nicely  balanced  period 
of  the  Rambler.  But  in  his  talk  there  were  no  pom- 
pous triads,  and  little  more  than  a  fair  proportion  01 
words  in  osity  and  ation.  All  was  simplicity,  ease, 
and  vigor.  He  uttered  his  short,  weighty,  and  pointed 
sentences  with  a  power  of  voice  and  a  justness  and 
energy  of  emphasis,  of  which  the  effect  was  rather 
increased  than  diminished  by  the  rollings  of  his  huge 
form,  and  by  the  asthmatic  gaspings  and  puttings  in 
which    the  peals  of  his  eloquence  generally  ended. 


304  LIT  ERA  R  Y  ESSA  YS. 

Nor  did  the  laziness  which  made  him  unwilling  to 
sit  down  to  his  desk  prevent  him  from  giving  instruc- 
tion or  entertainment  orally.  To  discuss  questions  of 
taste,  of  learning,  of  casuistry,  in  language  so  exact 
and  so  forcible  that  it  might  have  been  printed  with- 
out the  alteration  of  a  word,  was  to  him  no  exertion, 
but  a  pleasure.  He  loved,  as  he  said,  to  fold  his  legs 
and  have  his  talk  out.  He  was  ready  to  bestow  the 
overflowings  of  his  full  mind  on  anybody  who  would 
start  a  subject,  on  a  fellow-passenger  in  a  stage  coach, 
or  on  the  person  who  sat  at  the  same  table  with  him 
in  an  eating  house.  But  his  conversation  was  nowhere 
so  brilliant  and  striking  as  when  he  was  surrounded 
by  a  few  friends,  whose  abilities  and  knowledge  en- 
abled them,  as  he  once  expressed  it,  to  send  him 
back  every  ball  that  he  threw.  Some  of  these,  in 
1764,  formed  themselves  into  a  club,  which  gradually 
became  a  formidable  power  in  the  commonwealth  of 
letters.  The  verdicts  pronounced  by  this  conclave 
on  new  books  were  speedily  known  over  all  London, 
and  were  sufficient  to  sell  off  a  whole  edition  in  a  day, 
or  to  condemn  the  sheets  to  the  service  of  the  trunk- 
maker  and  the  pastry-cook.  Nor  shall  we  think  this 
strange  when  we  consider  what  great  and  various 
talents  and  acquirements  met  in  the  little  fraternity. 
Goldsmith  was  the  representative  of  poetry  and  light 
literature,  Reynolds  of  the  arts,  Burke  of  political 
eloquence  and  political  philosophy.  There,  too, 
were  Gibbon,  the  greatest  historian,  and  Jones  the 
greatest  linguist  of  the  age.  Garrick  brought  to  the 
meetings  his  inexhaustible  pleasantry,  his  incom- 
parable mimicry,  and  his  consummate  knowledge  of 
stage  effect.  Among  the  most  constant  attendants 
were  two  high-born  and  high-bred  gentlemen,  closely 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  305 

bound  together  by  friendship,  but  of  widely  different 
characters  and  habits  ;  Bennet  Langton,  distinguished 
by  his  skill  in  Greek  literature,  by  the  orthodoxy  of 
his  opinions,  and  by  the  sanctity  of  his  life ;  and 
Topham  Beauclerk,  renowned  for  his  amours,  his 
knowledge  of  the  gay  world,  his  fastidious  taste, 
and  his  sarcastic  wit.  To  predominate  over  such  a 
society  was  not  easy.  Yet  even  over  such  a  society 
Johnson  predominated.  Burke  might  indeed  have 
disputed  the  supremacy  to  which  others  were  under 
the  necessity  of  submitting.  But  Burke,  though  not 
generally  a  very  patient  listener,  was  content  to  take 
the  second  part  when  Johnson  was  present ;  and  the 
club  itself,  consisting  of  so  many  eminent  men,  is  to 
this  day  popularly  designated  as  Johnson's  Club. 

Among  the  members  of  this  celebrated  body  was 
one  to  whom  it  has  owed  the  greater  part  of  its 
celebrity,  yet  who  was  regarded  with  little  respect 
by  his  brethren,  and  had  not  without  difficulty 
obtained  a  seat  among  them.  This  was  James 
Boswell,  a  young  Scotch  lawyer,  heir  to  an  honor- 
able name  and  a  fair  estate.  That  he  was  a  cox- 
comb and  a  bore,  weak,  vain,  pushing,  curious, 
garrulous,  was  obvious  to  all  who  were  acquainted 
with  him.  That  he  could  not  reason,  that  he  had 
no  wit,  no  humor,  no  eloquence,  is  apparent  from 
his  writings.  And  yet  his  writings  are  read  beyond 
the  Mississippi,  and  under  the  Southern  Cross,  and 
are  likely  to  be  read  as  long  as  the  English  exists, 
either  as  a  living  or  as  a  dead  language.  Nature  had 
made- him  a  slave  and  an  idolater.  His  mind  resem- 
bled those  creepers  which  the  botanists  call  parasites, 
and  which  can  subsist  only  by  clinging  round  the  stems 
and  imbibing  the  juices  of  stronger  plants.     He  must 


306  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

have  fastened  himself  on  somebody.  He  might  have 
fastened  himself  on  Wilkes,  and  have  become  the 
fiercest  patriot  in  the  Bill  of  Rights  Society.  He 
might  have  fastened  himself  on  Whitfield,  and  have 
become  the  loudest  field  preacher  among  the  Calvin- 
istic  Methodists.  In  a  happy  hour  he  fastened  him- 
self on  Johnson.  The  pair  might  seem  ill  matched. 
For  Johnson  had  early  been  prejudiced  against  Bos- 
well's  country.  To  a  man  of  Johnson's  strong  under- 
standing and  irritable  temper,  the  silly  egotism  and 
adulation  of  Boswell  must  have  been  as  teasing  as 
the  constant  buzz  of  a  fly.  Johnson  hated  to  be 
questioned ;  and  Boswell  was  eternally  catechising 
him  on  all  kinds  of  subjects,  and  sometimes  pro- 
pounded such  questions  as  "What  would  you  do, 
sir,  if  you  were  locked  up  in  a  tower  with  a  baby  ?  " 
Johnson  was  a  water-drinker ;  and  Boswell  was  a 
wine-bibber,  and  indeed  little  better  than  a  habitual 
sot.  It  was  impossible  that  there  should  be  perfect 
harmony  between  two  such  companions.  Indeed,  the 
great  man  was  sometimes  provoked  into  fits  of  passion 
in  which  he  said  things  which  the  small  man,  during 
a  few  hours,  seriously  resented.  Every  quarrel,  how- 
ever, was  soon  made  up.  During  twenty  years  the 
disciple  continued  to  worship  the  master :  the  master 
continued  to  scold  the  disciple,  to  sneer  at  him,  and 
to  love  him.  The  two  friends  ordinarily  resided  at 
a  great  distance  from  each  other.  Boswell  practised 
in  the  Parliament  House  of  Edinburgh,  and  could  pay 
only  occasional  visits  to  London.  During  those  visits 
his  chief  business  was  to  watch  Johnson,  to  discover 
all  Johnson's  habits,  to  turn  the  conversation  to  sub- 
jects about  which  Johnson  was  likely  to  say  some- 
thing remarkable,  and  to  fill  quarto  note  books  with 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  307 

minutes  of  what  Johnson  had  said.  In  this  way  were 
gathered  the  materials  out  of  which  was  afterwards 
constructed  the  most  interesting  biographical  work 
in  the  world. 

Soon  after  the  club  began  to  exist,  Johnson  formed 
a  connection  less  important  indeed  to  his  fame,  but 
much  more  important  to  his  happiness,  than  his  con- 
nection with  Boswell.  Henry  Thrale,  one  of  the 
most  opulent  brewers  in  the  kingdom,  a  man  of  sound 
and  cultivated  understanding,  rigid  principles,  and 
liberal  spirit,  was  married  to  one  of  those  clever, 
kind-hearted,  engaging,  vain,  pert  young  women,  who 
were  perpetually  doing  or  saying  what  is  not  exactly 
right,  but  who,  do  or  say  what  they  may,  are  always 
agreeable.  In  1765  the  Thrales  became  acquainted 
with  Johnson  ;  and  the  acquaintance  ripened  fast  into 
friendship.  They  were  astonished  and  delighted 
by  the  brilliancy  of  his  conversation.  They  were 
flattered  by  finding  that  a  man  so  widely  celebrated 
preferred  their  house  to  any  other  in  London. 
Even  the  peculiarities  which  seemed  to  unfit  him  for 
civilized  society,  his  gesticulations,  his  rollings,  his 
puffings,  his  mutterings,  the  strange  way  in  which  he 
put  on  his  clothes,  the  ravenous  eagerness  with  which 
he  devoured  his  dinner,  his  fits  of  melancholy,  his  fits 
of  anger,  his  frequent  rudeness,  his  occasional  ferocity, 
increased  the  interest  which  his  new  associates  took 
in  him.  For  these  things  were  the  cruel  marks  left 
behind  by  a  life  which  had  been  one  long  conflict 
with  disease  and  with  adversity.  In  a  vulgar  hack 
writer  such  oddities  would  have  excited  only  disgust. 
But  in  a  man  of  genius,  learning,  and  virtue  their  effect 
was  to  add  pity  to  admiration  and  esteem.  Johnson 
soon  had  an  apartment  at  the  brewery  in  Southwark, 


308  LITERARY  ESSAYS.     • 

and  a  still  more  pleasant  apartment  at  the  villa  of  his 
friends  on  Streatham  Common.  A  large  part  of  ever^ 
year  he  passed  in  those  abodes,  abodes  which  must 
have  seemed  magnificent  and  luxurious  indeed,  when 
compared  with  the  dens  in  which  he  had  generally 
been  lodged.  But  his  chief  pleasures  were  derived 
from  what  the  astronomer  of  his  Abyssinian  tale 
called  "  the  endearing  elegance  of  female  friendship." 
Mrs.  Thrale  rallied  him,  soothed  him,  coaxed  him, 
and,  if  she  sometimes  provoked  him  by  her  flippancy, 
made  ample  amends  by  listening  to  his  reproofs,  with 
angelic  sweetness  of  temper.  When  he  was  diseased 
in  body  and  in  mind,  she  was  the  most  tender  of 
nurses.  No  comfort  that  wealth  could  purchase,  no 
contrivance  that  womanly  ingenuity,  set  to  work  by 
womanly  compassion,  could  devise,  was  wanting  to 
his  sick  room.  He  requited  her  kindness  by  an  affec- 
tion, pure  as  the  affection  of  a  father,  yet  delicately 
tinged  with  a  gallantry,  which,  though  awkward,  must 
have  been  more  nattering  than  the  attentions  of  a 
crowd  of  fools  who  gloried  in  the  names,  now  obsolete, 
of  Buck  and  Maccaroni.  It  should  seem  that  a  full 
half  of  Johnson's  life,  during  about  sixteen  years,  was 
passed  under  the  roof  of  the  Thrales.  He  accom- 
panied the  family  sometimes  to  Bath,  and  sometimes 
to  Brighton,  once  to  Wales,  and  once  to  Paris.  But 
he  had  at  the  same  time  a  house  in  one  of  the  narrow 
and  gloomy  courts  on  the  north  of  Fleet  Street.  In 
the  garret  was  his  library,  a  large  and  miscellaneous 
collection  of  books,  falling  to  pieces  and  begrimed 
with  dust.  On  a  lower  floor  he  sometimes,  but  very 
rarely,  regaled  a  friend  with  a  plain  dinner,  a  veal  pie. 
or  a  leg  of  lamb  and  spinage,  and  a  rice  pudding. 
Nor  was   the   dwelling  uninhabited   during  his  long 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  309 

absences.  It  was  the  home  of  the  most  extraordi- 
nary assemblage  of  inmates  that  ever  was  brought 
together.  At  the  head  of  the  establishment  Johnson 
had  placed  an  old  lady  named  Williams,  whose  chief 
recommendations  were  her  blindness  and  her  poverty. 
But,  in  spite  of  her  murmurs  and  reproaches,  he  gave 
an  asylum  to  another  lady  who  was  as  poor  as  herself, 
Mrs.  Desmoulins,  whose  family  he  had  known  many 
years  before  in  Staffordshire.  Room  was  found  for 
the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Desmoulins,  and  for  another 
destitute  damsel,  who  was  generally  addressed  as  Miss 
Carmichael,  but  whom  her  generous  host  called  Polly. 
An  old  quack-doctor  named  Levett,  who  bled  and 
dosed  coal-heavers  and  hackney  coachmen,  and  re- 
ceived for  fees  crusts  of  bread,  bits  of  bacon,  glasses 
of  gin,  and  sometimes  a  little  copper,  completed  this 
strange  menagerie.  All  these  poor  creatures  were  at 
constant  war  with  each  other,  and  with  Johnson's 
negro  servant  Frank.  Sometimes,  indeed,  they  trans- 
ferred their  hostilities  from  the  servant  to  the  mas- 
ter, complained  that  a  better  table  was  not  kept  for 
them,  and  railed  or  maundered  till  their  benefactor 
was  glad  to  make  his  escape  to  Streatham,  or  to  the 
Mitre  Tavern.  And  yet  he,  who  was  generally  the 
haughtiest  and  most  irritable  of  mankind,  who  was 
but  too  prompt  to  resent  anything  which  looked  like 
a  slight  on  the  part  of  a  purse-proud  bookseller,  or  of 
a  noble  and  powerful  patron,  bore  patiently  from  men- 
dicants, who,  but  for  his  bounty,  must  have  gone  to 
the  work-house,  insults  more  provoking  than  those  for 
which  he  had  knocked  down  Osborne  and  bidden  de- 
fiance to  Chesterfield.  Year  after  year  Mrs.  Williams 
and  Mrs.  Desmoulins,  Polly  and  Levett,  continued  to 
torment  him  and  to  live  upon  him. 


3IO  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

The  course  of  life  which  has  been  described  was 
interrupted  in  Johnson's  sixty-fourth  year  by  an 
important  event.  He  had  early  read  an  account  of 
the  Hebrides,  and  had  been  much  interested  by  learn- 
ing that  there  was  so  near  him  a  land  peopled  by  a 
race  which  was  still  as  rude  and  simple  as  in  the 
middle  ages.  A  wish  to  become  intimately  acquainted 
with  a  state  of  society  so  utterly  unlike  all  that  he  had 
ever  seen  frequently  crossed  his  mind.  But  it  is  not 
probable  that  his  curiosity  would  have  overcome  his 
habitual  sluggishness,  and  his  love  of  the  smoke, 
the  mud,  and  the  cries  of  London,  had  not  Boswell 
importuned  him  to  attempt  the  adventure,  and  offered 
to  be  his  squire.  At  length,  in  August,  1773,  Johnson 
crossed  the  Highland  line,  and  plunged  courageously 
into  what  was  then  considered,  by  most  Englishmen, 
as  a  dreary  and  perilous  wilderness.  After  wander- 
ing about  two  months  through  the  Celtic  region,  some- 
times in  rude  boats  which  did  not  protect  him  from 
the  rain,  and  sometimes  on  small  shaggy  ponies  which 
could  hardly  bear  his  weight,  he  returned  to  his  old 
haunts  with  a  mind  full  of  new  images  and  new  theo- 
ries. During  the  following  year  he  employed  himself 
in  recording  his  adventures.  About  the  beginning  of 
1775.  his  Journey  to  the  Hebrides  was  published,  and 
was,  during  some  weeks,  the  chief  subject  of  conver- 
sation in  all  circles  in  which  any  attention  wras  paid  to 
literature.  The  book  is  still  read  with  pleasure.  The 
narrative  is  entertaining ;  the  speculations,  whether 
sound  or  unsound,  are  always  ingenious ;  and  the 
style,  though  too  stiff  and  pompous,  is  somewhat 
easier  and  more  graceful  than  that  of  his  early  writ- 
ings. His  prejudice  against  the  Scotch  had  at  length 
become  little  more  than  matter  of  jest ;  and  whatever 


SAMUEL  JOHNS  OAT.  3 1 1 

remained  of  the  old  feeling  had  been  effectually  re- 
moved by  the  kind  and  respectful  hospitality  with 
which  he  had  been  received  in  every  part  of  Scotland. 
It  was,  of  course,  not  to  be  expected  that  an  Oxonian 
Tory  should  praise  the  Presbyterian  polity  and  ritual, 
or  that  an  eye  accustomed  to  the  hedgerows  and  parks 
of  England  should  not  be  struck  by  the  bareness  of 
Berwickshire  and  East  Lothian.  But  even  in  censure 
Johnson's  tone  is  not  unfriendly.  The  most  enlight- 
ened Scotchmen,  with  Lord  Mansfield  at  their  head, 
were  well  pleased.  But  some  foolish  and  ignorant 
Scotchmen  were  moved  to  anger  by  a  little  unpalata- 
ble truth  which  was  mingled  with  much  eulogy,  and 
assailed  him  whom  they  chose  to  consider  as  the  enemy 
of  their  country  with  libels  much  more  dishonorable 
to  theii  country  than  anything  that  he  had  ever  said  or 
written  They  published  paragraphs  in  the  news- 
papers, articles  in  the  magazines,  sixpenny  pamphlets, 
five  shilling  books.  One  scribbler  abused  Johnson  for 
being  blear-eyed ;  another  for  being  a  pensioner ;  a 
third  informed  the  world  that  one  of  the  Doctor's 
uncles  had  been  convicted  of  felony  in  Scotland,  and 
had  found  that  there  was  in  that  country  one  tree 
capable  of  supporting  the  weight  of  an  Englishman. 
Macpherson,  whose  Fingal  had  been  proved  in  the 
Journey  to  be  an  impudent  forgery,  threatened  to  take 
vengeance  with  a  cane.  The  only  effect  of  this  threat 
was  that  Johnson  reiterated  the  charge  of  forgery  in 
the  most  contemptuous  terms,  and  walked  about,  dur- 
ing some  time,  with  a  cudgel,  which,  if  the  impostor 
had  not  been  too  wise  to  encounter  it,  would  assuredly 
have  descended  upon  him,  to  borrow  the  sublime 
language  of  his  own  epic  poem,  "  like  a  hammer  on 
the  red  son  of  the  furnace.1' 


312  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Of  other  assailants  Johnson  took  no  notice  what- 
ever. He  had  early  resolved  never  to  be  drawn  into 
controversy ;  and  he  adhered  to  his  resolution  with 
a  steadfastness  which  is  the  more  extraordinary, 
because  he  was,  both  intellectually  and  morally,  of 
the  stuff  of  which  controversialists  are  made.  In 
conversation,  he  was  a  singularly  eager,  acute,  and 
pertinacious  disputant.  When  at  a  loss  for  good 
reasons,  he  had  recourse  to  sophistry ;  and,  when 
heated  by  altercation,  he  made  unsparing  use  of  sar- 
casm and  invective.  But  when  he  took  his  pen  in 
his  hand,  his  whole  character  seemed  to  be  changed. 
A  hundred  bad  writers  misrepresented  him  and  reviled 
him  ;  but  not  one  of  the  hundred  could  boast  of  hav- 
ing been  thought  by  him  worthy  of  a  refutation,  or 
even  of  a  retort.  The  Kenricks,  Campbells,  the  Mac- 
Nicols,  and  Hendersons,  did  their  best  to  annoy  him, 
in  the  hope  that  he  would  give  them  importance  by 
answering  them.  But  the  reader  will  in  vain  search 
his  works  for  any  allusion  to  Kenricks,  or  Campbell, 
or  MacNicol  or  Henderson.  One  Scotchman,  bent 
on  vindicating  the  fame  of  Scotch  learning,  defied 
him  to  the  combat  in  a  detestable  Latin  hexameter, 

"  Maxime,  si  tu  vis,  cupio  contendere  tecum." 

But  Johnson  took  no  notice  of  the  challenge.  He 
had  learned,  both  from  his  own  observation  and  from 
literary  history,  in  which  he  was  deeply  read,  that  the 
place  of  books  in  the  public  estimation  is  fixed,  not 
by  what  is  written  about  them,  but  by  what  is  written 
in  them ;  and  that  an  author  whose  works  are  likely 
to  live  is  very  unwise  if  he  stoops  to  wrangle  with 
detractors  whose  works  are  certain  to  die.  He  always 
maintained  that  fame  was  a  shuttlecock  which  could 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  3  1 3 

be  kept  up  only  by  being  beaten  back,  as  well  as  beaten 
forward,  and  which  would  soon  fall  if  there  were  only 
one  battledore.  No  saying  was  oftener  in  his  mouth 
than  that  fine  apophthegm  of  Bentley,  that  no  man 
was  ever  written  down  but  by  himself. 

Unhappily,  a  few  months  after  the  appearance  of 
the  Journey  to  the  Hebrides,  Johnson  did  what  none 
of  his  envious  assailants  could  have  done,  and  to  a 
certain  extent  succeeded  in  writing  himself  down. 
The  disputes  between  England  and  her  American 
colonies  had  reached  a  point  at  which  no  amicable 
adjustment  was  possible.  Civil  war  was  evidently 
impending ;  and  the  ministers  seem  to  have  thought 
that  the  eloquence  of  Johnson  might  with  advantage 
be  employed  to  inflame  the  nation  against  the  oppo- 
sition here,  and  against  the  rebels  beyond  the  Atlantic. 
He  had  already  written  two  or  three  tracts  in  defence 
of  the  foreign  and  domestic  policy  of  the  government ; 
and  those  tracts,  though  hardly  worthy  of  him,  were 
much  superior  to  the  crowd  of  pamphlets  which  lay 
on  the  counters  of  Almon  and  Stockdale.  But  his 
Taxation  No  Tyranny  was  a  pitiable  failure.  The 
very  title  was  a  silly  phrase,  which  can  have  been 
recommended  to  his  choice  by  nothing  but  a  jin- 
gling alliteration  which  he  ought  to  have  despised. 
The  arguments  were  such  as  boys  use  in  debating 
societies.  The  pleasantry  was  as  awkward  as  the 
gambols  of  a  hippopotamus.  Even  Bos  well  was 
forced  to  own  that,  in  this  unfortunate  piece,  he  could 
detect  no  trace  of  his  master's  powers.  The  general 
opinion  was  that  the  strong  faculties  which  had  pro- 
duced the  Dictionary  and  the  Rambler  were  beginning 
to  feel  the  effect  of  time  and  of  disease,  and  that  the  old 
man  would  best  consult  his  credit  by  writing  no  more. 


314  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

But  this  was  a  great  mistake.  Johnson  had  failed, 
not  because  his  mind  was  less  vigorous  than  when  he 
wrote  Rasselas  in  the  evenings  of  a  week,  but  because 
he  had  foolishly  chosen,  or  suffered  others  to  choose 
for  him,  a  subject  such  as  he  would  at  no  time  have 
been  competent  to  treat.  He  was  in  no  sense  a 
statesman.  He  never  willingly  read  or  thought  or 
talked  about  affairs  of  State.  He  loved  biography, 
literary  history,  the  history  of  manners  ;  but  political 
history  was  positively  distasteful  to  him.  The  ques- 
tion at  issue  between  the  colonies  and  the  mother 
country  was  a  question  about  which  he  had  really 
nothing  to  say.  He  failed,  therefore,  as  the  greatest 
men  must  fail  when  they  attempt  to  do  that  for  which 
they  are  unfit ;  as  Burke  would  have  failed  if  Burke 
had  tried  to  write  comedies  like  those  of  Sheridan ; 
as  Reynolds  would  have  failed  if  Reynolds  had  tried 
to  paint  landscapes  like  those  of  Wilson.  Happily, 
Johnson  soon  had  an  opportunity  of  proving  most 
signally  that  his  failure  was  not  to  be  ascribed  to 
intellectual  decay. 

On  Easter  Eve,  1777,  some  persons,  deputed  by  a 
meeting  which  consisted  of  forty  of  the  first  book- 
sellers in  London,  called  upon  him.  Though  he  had 
some  scruples  about  doing  business  at  that  season, 
he  received  his  visitors  with  much  civility.  They 
came  to  inform  him  that  a  new  edition  of  the  English 
poets,  from  Cowley  downwards,  was  in  contemplation, 
and  to  ask  him  to  furnish  short  biographical  prefaces. 
He  readily  undertook  the  task,  a  task  for  which  he 
was  pre-eminently  qualified.  His  knowledge  of  the 
literary  history  of  England  since  the  Restoration  was 
unrivalled.  That  knowledge  he  had  derived  partly 
from  books,  and  partly  from  sources  which  had  long 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  3  I  5 

been  closed ;  from  old  Grub  Street  traditions ;  from 
the  talk  of  forgotten  poetasters  and  pamphleteers 
who  had  long  been  lying  in  parish  vaults ;  from  the 
recollections  of  such  men  as  Gilbert  Walmesley,  who 
had  conversed  with  the  wits  of  Button ;  Cibber,  who 
had  mutilated  the  plays  of  two  generations  of  drama- 
tists ;  Orrery,  who  had  been  admitted  to  the  society 
of  Swift ;  and  Savage,  who  had  rendered  services  of 
no  very  honorable  kind  to  Pope.  The  biographer 
therefore  sate  down  to  his  task  with  a  mind  full  of 
matter.  He  had  at  first  intended  to  give  only  a  para- 
graph to  every  minor  poet,  and  only  four  or  five  pages 
to  the  greatest  name.  But  the  flood  of  anecdote  and 
criticism  overflowed  the  narrow  channel.  The  work, 
which  was  originally  meant  to  consist  only  of  a  few 
sheets,  swelled  into  ten  volumes,  small  volumes,  it  is 
true,  and  not  closely  printed.  The  first  four  appeared 
in  1779,  the  remaining  six  in  1781. 

The  Lives  of  the  Poets,  are,  on  the  whole,  the  best 
of  Johnson's  works.  The  narratives  are  as  enter- 
taining as  any  novel.  The  remarks  on  life  and  on 
human  nature  are  eminently  shrewd  and  profound. 
The  criticisms  are  often  excellent,  and,  even  when 
grossly  and  provokingly  unjust,  well  deserve  to  be 
studied.  For,  however  erroneous  they  may  be,  they 
are  never  silly.  They  are  the  judgments  of  a  mind 
trammelled  by  prejudice  and  deficient  in  sensibility, 
but  vigorous  and  acute.  They  therefore  generally 
contain  a  portion  of  valuable  truth  which  deserves  to 
be  separated  from  the  alloy ;  and,  at  the  very  worst, 
they  mean  something,  a  praise  to  which  much  of  what 
is  called  criticism  in  our  time  has  no  pretensions. 

Savage's  Life  Johnson  reprinted  nearly  as  it  had 
appeared  in  1744.     Whoever,  after  reading  that  Life, 


316  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

will  turn  to  the  other  lives  will  be  struck  by  the  dif- 
ference of  style.  Since  Johnson  had  been  at  ease  in 
his  circumstances  he  had  written  little  and  had  talked 
much.  When,  therefore,  he,  after  the  lapse  of  years, 
resumed  his  pen,  the  mannerism  which  he  had  con- 
tracted while  he  was  in  the  constant  habit  of  elaborate 
composition  was  less  perceptible  than  formerly ;  and 
his  diction  frequently  had  a  colloquial  ease  which  it 
had  formerly  wanted.  The  improvement  may  be  dis- 
cerned by  a  skilful  critic  in  the  Journey  to  the  Hebrides, 
and  in  the  Lives  of  the  Poets  is  so  obvious  that  it  can- 
not escape  the  notice  of  the  most  careless  reader. 

Among  the  lives  the  best  are  perhaps  those  of 
Cowley,  Dryden,  and  Pope.  The  very  worst  is, 
beyond  all  doubt,  that  of  Gray. 

This  great  work  at  once  became  popular.  There 
was,  indeed,  much  just  and  much  unjust  censure  :  but 
even  those  who  were  loudest  in  blame  were  attracted 
by  the  book  in  spite  of  themselves.  Malone  com- 
puted the  gains  of  the  publishers  at  five  or  six  thou- 
sand pounds.  But  the  writer  was  very  poorly  remu- 
nerated. Intending  at  first  to  write  very  short  pref- 
aces, he  had  stipulated  for  only  two  hundred  guineas. 
The  booksellers,  when  they  saw  how  far  his  perform- 
ance had  surpassed  his  promise,  added  only  another 
hundred.  Indeed,  Johnson,  though  he  did  not  de- 
spise, nor  affect  to  despise,  money,  and  though  his 
strong  sense  and  long  experience  ought  to  have  quali- 
fied him  to  protect  his  own  interests,  seems  to  have 
been  singularly  unskilful  and  unlucky  in  his  literary 
bargains.  He  was  generally  reputed  the  first  English 
writer  of  his  time.  Yet  several  writers  of  his  time 
sold  their  copyrights  for  sums  such  as  he  never  ven- 
tured to  ask.     To  give  a  single  instance,  Robertson 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  317 

received  four  thousand  five  hundred  pounds  for  the 
History  of  Charles  V.  ;  and  it  is  no  disrespect  to  the 
memory  of  Robertson  to  say  that  the  History  of 
Charles  V.  is  both  a  less  valuable  and  a  less  amusing 
book  than  the  Lives  of  the  Poets. 

Johnson  was  now  in  his  seventy-second  year.  The 
infirmities  of  age  were  coming  fast  upon  him.  That 
inevitable  event  of  which  he  never  thought  without 
horror  was  brought  near  to  him ;  and  his  whole  life 
was  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  death.  He  had  often 
to  pay  the  cruel  price  of  longevity.  Every  year  he 
lost  what  could  never  be  replaced.  The  strange 
dependents  to  whom  he  had  given  shelter,  and  to 
whom,  iri  spite  of  their  faults,  he  was  strongly  attached 
by  habit,  dropped  off  one  by  one  ;  and,  in  the  silence  of 
his  home,  he  regretted  even  the  noise  of  their  scold- 
ing matches.  The  kind  and  generous  Thrale  was  no 
more ;  and  it  would  have  been  well  if  his  wife  had 
been  laid  beside  him.  But  she  survived  to  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  those  who  had  envied  her,  and  to 
draw  from  the  eyes  of  the  old  man  who  had  loved  her 
beyond  anything  in  the  world  tears  far  more  bitter 
than  he  would  have  shed  over  her  grave.  With  some 
estimable  and  many  agreeable  qualities,  she  was  not 
made  to  be  independent.  The  control  of  a  mind 
more  steadfast  than  her  own  was  necessary  to  her 
respectability.  While  she  was  restrained  by  her 
husband,  a  man  of  sense  and -firmness,  indulgent  to 
her  taste  in  trifles,  but  always  the  undisputed  master 
of  his  house,  her  worst  offences  had  been  impertinent 
jokes,  white  lies,  and  short  fits  of  pettishness  ending 
in  sunny  good  humor.  But  he  was  gone ;  and  she 
was  left  an  opulent  widow  of  forty,  with  strong  sensi- 
bility,  volatile   fancy,   and   slender  judgment.      She 


318  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

soon  fell  in  love  with  a  music-master  from  Brescia, 
in  whom  nobody  but  herself  could  discover  anything 
to  admire.  Her  pride,  and  perhaps  some  better  feel- 
ings, struggled  hard  against  this  degrading  passion. 
But  the  struggle  irritated  her  nerves,  soured  her  tem- 
per, and  at  length  endangered  her  health.  Conscious 
that  her  choice  was  one  which  Johnson  could  not 
approve,  she  became  desirous  to  escape  from  his 
inspection.  Her  manner  towards  him  changed.  She 
was  sometimes  cold  and  sometimes  petulant.  She  did 
not  conceal  her  joy  when  he  left  Streatham ;  she 
never  pressed  him  to  return ;  and,  if  he  came  unbid- 
den, she  received  him  in  a  manner  which  convinced 
him  that  he  was  no  longer  a  welcome  guest.  He  took 
the  very  intelligible  hints  which  she  gave.  He  read, 
for  the  last  time,  a  chapter  of  the  Greek  Testament 
in  the  library  which  had  been  formed  by  himself.  In 
a  solemn  and  tender  prayer  he  commended  the  house 
and  its  inmates  to  the  Divine  protection,  and,  with 
emotions  which  choked  his  voice  and  convulsed  his 
powerful  frame,  left  forever  that  beloved  home  for  the 
gloomy  and  desolate  house  behind  Fleet  Street,  where 
the  few  and  evil  days  which  still  remained  to  him 
were  to  run  out.  Here,  in  June,  1783,  he  had  a  para- 
lytic stroke,  from  which,  however,  he  recovered,  and 
which  does  not  appear  to  have  at  all  impaired  his 
intellectual  faculties.  But  other  maladies  came  thick 
upon  him.  His  asthma  tormented  him  day  and 
night.  Dropsical  symptoms  made  their  appearance. 
While  sinking  under  a  complication  of  diseases,  he 
heard  that  the  woman  whose  friendship  had  been  the 
chief  happiness  of  sixteen  years  of  his  life  had  married 
an  Italian  fiddler ;  that  all  London  was  crying  shame 
upon  her ;   and  that  the  newspapers  and  magazines 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  319 

were  filled  with  allusions  to  the  Ephesian  matron, 
and  the  two  pictures  in  Hamlet.  He  vehemently 
said  that  he  would  try  to  forget  her  existence.  He 
never  uttered  her  name.  Every  memorial  of  her 
which  met  his  eye  he  flung  into  the  fire.  She  mean- 
while fled  from  the  laughter  and  hisses  of  her  coun- 
trymen and  countrywomen  to  a  land  where  she  was 
unknown,  hastened  across  Mount  Cenis,  and  learned, 
while  passing  a  merry  Christmas  of  concerts  and  lem- 
onade parties  at  Milan,  that  the  great  man  with  whose 
name  hers  is  inseparably  associated  had  ceased  to 
exist. 

He  had,  in  spite  of  much  mental  and  bodily  afflic- 
tion, clung  vehemently  to  life.  The  feeling  described 
in  that  fine  but  gloomy  paper  which  closes  the  series 
of  his  Idlers  seemed  to  grow  stronger  in  him  as  his 
last  hour  drew  near.  He  fancied  that  he  should  be 
able  to  draw  his  breath  more  easily  in  a  southern  cli- 
mate, and  would  probably  have  set  out  for  Rome  and 
Naples,  but  for  his  fear  of  the  expense  of  the  journey. 
That  expense,  indeed,  he  had  the  means  of  defray- 
ing ;  for  he  had  laid  up  about  two  thousand  pounds, 
the  fruit  of  labors  which  had  made  the  fortune  of 
several  publishers.  But  he  was  unwilling  to  break  in 
upon  this  hoard ;  and  he  seems  to  have  wished  even 
to  keep  its  existence  a  secret.  Some  of  his  friends 
hoped  that  the  government  might  be  induced  to 
increase  his  pension  to  six  hundred  pounds  a  year: 
but  this  hope  was  disappointed ;  and  he  resolved  to 
stand  one  English  winter  more.  That  winter  was  his 
last.  His  legs  grew  weaker  ;  his  breath  grew  shorter ; 
the  fatal  water  gathered  fast,  in  spite  of  incisions  which 
he,  courageous  against  pain,  but  timid  against  death, 
urged   his   surgeons    to    make    deeper    and    deeper. 


320  LITERARY  ESSAYS. 

Though  the  tender  care  which  had  mitigated  his 
sufferings  during  months  of  sickness  at  Streatham 
was  withdrawn,  he  was  not  left  desolate.  The  ablest 
physicians  and  surgeons  attended  him,  and  refused  to 
accept  fees  from  him.  Burke  parted  from  him  with 
deep  emotion.  Wyndham  sat  much  in  the  sick-room, 
arranged  the  pillows,  and  sent  his  own  servant  to 
watch  a  night  by  the  bed.  Frances  Burney,  whom 
the  old  man  had  cherished  with  fatherly  kindness, 
stood  weeping  at  the  door;  while  Langton.  whose 
piety  eminently  qualified  him  to  be  an  adviser  and 
comforter  at  such  a  time,  received  the  last  pressure 
of  his  friend's  hand  within.  When  at  length  the 
moment,  dreaded  through  so  many  years,  came  close, 
the  dark  cloud  passed  away  from  Johnson's  mind. 
His  temper  became  unusually  patient  and  gentle  ;  he 
ceased  to  think  with  terror  of  death,  and  of  that  which 
lies  beyond  death  ;  and  he  spoke  much  of  the  mercy 
of  God,  and  of  the  propitiation  of  Christ.  In  this 
serene  frame  of  mind  he  died  on  the  13th  of  Decem- 
ber, 1784.  He  was  laid,  a  week  later,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  among  the  eminent  men  of  whom  he  had  been 
the  historian,  —  Cowley  and  Denham,  Dryden  and 
Congreve,  Gay,  Prior,  and  Addison. 

Since  his  death  the  popularity  of  his  works  —  the 
Lives  of  the  Poets,  and,  perhaps,  the  Vanity  of  Human 
Wishes,  excepted  —  has  greatly  diminished.  His  Dic- 
tionary has  been  altered  by  editors  till  it  can  scarcely 
be  called  his.  An  allusion  to  his  Rambler  or  his 
Idler  is  not  readily  apprehended  in  literary  circles. 
The  fame  even  of  Rasselas  has  grown  somewhat  dim. 
But,  though  the  celebrity  of  the  writings  may  have 
declined,  the  celebrity  of  the  writer,  strange  to  say,  is 
as  great  as  ever.     Boswell's  book  has  done  for  him 


SAMUEL  JOHNSON.  32  I 

more  than  the  best  of  his  own  books  could  do.  The 
memory  of  other  authors  is  kept  alive  by  their  works. 
But  the  memory  of  Johnson  keeps  many  of  his  works 
alive.  The  old  philosopher  is  still  among  us  in  the 
brown  coat  with  the  metal  buttons  and  the  shirt  which 
ought  to  be  at  wash,  blinking,  puffing,  rolling  his  head, 
drumming  with  his  fingers,  tearing  his  meat  like  a  tiger 
and  swallowing  his  tea  in  oceans.  No  human  being 
who  has  been  more  than  seventy  years  in  the  grave 
is  so  well  known  to  us.  And  it  is  but  just  to  say  that 
our  intimate  acquaintance  with  what  he  would  himself 
have  called  the  anfractuosities  of  his  intellect  and  of 
his  temper  serves  only  to  strengthen  our  conviction 
that  he  was  both  a  great  and  a  good  man. 


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